


Twenty-six

by Endrina



Series: November tales [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animals, Death, Don't copy to another site, Horror, Multi, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-13 09:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 145,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endrina/pseuds/Endrina
Summary: A story of loss and grief, the best section of the newspaper, art appreciation, good and bad detective work and the awful way around words of Harry Potter.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Regulus Black/Luna Lovegood
Series: November tales [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547518
Comments: 141
Kudos: 374





	1. A problem

**Author's Note:**

> The second, or maybe the first of two independent stories that talk to each other. “Twenty-nine” goes first chronologically, but it can be seen as a spinoff of “Twenty-six”. You can start with either story and read one or both.
> 
> Many, many, thanks to racheldoinglines for her beta work and help hammering the story into shape. Any remaining mistakes are the work of an evil wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much death and hurt and being afraid. Some gross medical and bodily functions. Happy ending, though.

ooOoo

PART ONE

A problem

ooOoo

Well, at least Harry _knew_ that he needed help. That was a good thing.

Harry had done some reading on trauma because, boy, was he messed up after everything that had happened to him since he was age one. The books stressed the importance of communication and of recognising when one needed help. Nothing could be done if one didn’t admit the need for help.

Harry stopped on the landing of the stairs and took a deep breath. He needed help. See? He wasn’t afraid to admit it. He wasn’t even afraid of _asking_ for help. It was all good on his part. The only snag, the only problem, was that he had no one who could help him. No one.

Usually with a problem like This he would go to Hermione. But Hermione was in Munich and only now getting settled in her new life. She would come if Harry asked her to, but that wouldn’t be fair. She deserved to have problems in her life that had nothing to do with Harry.

The Weasleys, of course, were all out due to the nature of the problem itself. Besides, Harry suspected this wasn’t something that Ginny could help him with. Ginny’s solution for everything was hexing it, and if that didn’t work, flying around it. Ginny was awesome, Harry loved her to bits, but she couldn’t help here nor should she.

Ron… Again, no. Because he was a Weasley, and also because at the moment they were at kind of a low point in their friendship. It was all right, they would get better. They had had rifts before and they always made up. Ron just needed some time to get himself sorted. Things hadn’t worked out with Hermione after all, and while their split had been amicable it had also been… tense. Then Hermione had gotten a letter from Victor Krum who managed to be incredibly logical and knee-weakening romantic at the same time.

Who would have thought?

Krum said that he still loved Hermione. Apparently they had been corresponding so this wasn’t as creepy or out of the blue as it might look. He also had a proposal. He loved her, but he wouldn’t ask Hermione to move to Bulgaria and leave all her life in Britain behind, just as he didn’t want to make the same sacrifice and go play for a third-rate British team just so he could be close to her. Krum was rational enough to see how that would breed resentment. However, he had been offered a position on the Heildelberg Harriers in Germany and he knew there was an opening at the European Institute of Magical Research there.

It was a compromise. They would both leave things behind and they would both have to adapt to a new country, together. It was fair, logical, and very sweet. Hermione had said yes and moved to Germany and Harry wished her all the best even if he felt a bit lost not having her close.

Harry was doing well, though. He had taken Hermione’s decision as an inspiration to get his life sorted. Ron had taken it worse. Even if they had already broken up when Victor came around with his offer, to Ron it still felt like a betrayal and like abandonment. It had also brought back some of his ugly feelings from Harry’s and Ginny’s earlier break-up.

As Ginny had said, smiling over a pint, her tongue darting to lick the foam on her lips, her family had taken their break-up far worse than either of them. Actually, Ginny and Harry had been relieved. It wasn’t working out and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. They simply didn’t click that way and it was good that they realised it before they accidentally hurt each other.

Ron didn’t see it that way. Ron thought that if someone was going to date and marry his sister, it should be Harry or no one at all. Now that Hermione was gone, there had been an increase in comments about not appreciating good things and wasting opportunities and perhaps being a total duncehead.

It would pass, eventually, and if it took too long Ginny would knock some sense back into Ron. Harry wasn’t worried. He also understood that now was not the time to call Ron asking for help in a delicate and sensitive matter that tread on a very dark grey area of legality.

Not that he was planning to call him in any case because, as already said, Harry very specifically did not want to involve any Weasley in this. That should be the end of the discussion. No Weasleys at all, full stop. However, for some stupid, nasty reason, Harry couldn’t stop thinking that even if he were to throw that rule out he still couldn’t confide in his best friend because his stupid best friend was being stupid and angry.

There was a dark and distant voice, like an echo, telling him that he was alone and he had no friends. Like when he was little and lived under the stairs.

So no Hermione and no Ginny and no Ron. That was the end of the list. Harry had a problem and he couldn’t ask any of his closest friends for help. He knew other people, maybe even liked some of them, but he didn’t know them that well and he certainly didn’t trust them with something like This.

And that was just speaking of his classmates, of the people who had formed Dumbledore’s Army and were basically children during Voldemort’s return. If he went one level up, to the older generation, he found that either they had died (like Sirius, like Remus, like Dumbledore and even freaking Snape); or they were not that good (Mundungus Fletcher, dear Merlin, how had _he_ survived the war?). Or, more simply and dishearteningly, Harry didn’t think that they would understand, that they would see things his way, that they would have Harry’s back. Harry had exactly zero trust in people listening.

Introspection wasn’t doing much good. It did show him that all the anxiety he was feeling these days came from the realisation of having been manipulated by those who claimed they only wanted to protect him, but he might have been happier not knowing. He thought he had been happy when he first discovered magic and this wonderful new world away from the Dursleys, when he thought his life might turn for the better and he would stop being afraid and hungry.

So, basically, the day Hagrid took him shopping on Diagon Alley. That had been good. Everything else was a disaster. It just took him longer to realise it because he had had friends, decent food, and a change of pattern in how he was hurt.

He felt so very alone.

(shut up inner voice!)

His friends were gone. The adults (he was an adult now, even if he still was surprised that he could dispose of his own money and order a pint at the bar) never cared or understood.

He had A Problem and he needed help and he could see that, he wasn’t so blind as to think that he could fix this alone, but he didn’t have anyone to turn to.

Harry leaned back against the wall on the landing of the stairs that went down to the kitchen. It was a good place for thinking because it was a nowhere place. Not the kitchen and not the main floor of Grimmauld Place. Just a secluded spot, or better yet, a removed spot. Standing there he wasn’t outside the house and he wasn’t inside the house.

He took a deep breath to clear his head and push the bad ideas away. There you go, Potter! Don’t let it pull you down. He smiled. Mirthless, but it was a smile and totally counted. Harry was counting it.

To think that just last week he had been thinking of putting the place up for sale! Leaving Grimmauld Place and finding something for himself, a place clean of memories. But the house had sturdy walls and multiple protective charms and was built with a clear image of privacy in mind so he wasn’t getting rid of it anytime soon. Maybe he was paranoid and over-reacting but, Hel, it wasn’t his fault he had trust issues, not with the way life had been for him. He had learned to expect the worst; if it didn’t happen and things were upgraded to a comfy “bad,” then he let himself be pleasantly surprised. That way he wasted less energy.

It sucked, though. Just as this feeling of loneliness, of being all by himself in a crowded world sucked. This feeling like being naked and wet and cold and having the people around him press him down to the floor and suffocate him while at the same time ignoring his nakedness, his coldness, his awful vulnerability.

He couldn’t even wallow in peace. The very same Problem that had triggered this existential crisis had a crisis of its own and Harry had to run up the stairs to the living room to give what little help he could. For a while, nothing existed beyond that room. Harry stopped thinking and worrying. There was only the Problem and Harry’s desperate attempt to help.

There was a picture there, a painting. Harry had seen it by chance in a corner shop in Diagon Alley and paid three hundred galleons for it. Given the alarmed expression of the seller it might have been too much and Harry probably should have haggled, but he couldn’t muster any care. He had the money and he wanted the painting, so he gave the man the money and walked away with it. The painting depicted some ruins at the top of a hill or a mountain. Someone—couldn’t even say if they were male or female—was sitting down with their back to the viewer and looking down to whatever was at the foot of the hill. It looked extremely lonely and devastated. The world was in pieces and no power could bring it back to how it was.

Harry liked it because there was a serenity to it. The figure was alone in a broken world but they seemed at peace with it, as if the ruins weren’t a concern. Harry wanted to feel that peace that was far away from apathy, that quiet contentment.

(… That someone could feel something as similar as what Harry had been feeling for the last ten years! That someone could share that yearning!)

He wanted to be able to not care while still being able to appreciate beauty.

And then he had it! He _did_ have someone. Merlin, but he was stupid! If Ron were here he could have told him so a while ago. _Harry Potter, you are a self-centred toad, _is what Ron could have said. There was someone who was also alone, or had been very alone, someone failed by Hogwarts and the adult world. (Someone who could hear and see what Harry heard and saw that night years ago in the Department of Mysteries. Someone who could hear what Harry heard last night.) Someone who would help Harry definitely and without reservation, who could be trusted to keep a secret and even to understand the nature of this mess.

“Kreacher, I’m going out,” said Harry over his shoulder as he hurriedly threw a scarf around his neck. It was November, or March, he didn’t know. Sometimes he wasn’t sure of the time, which was fine, it happened to a lot of people. He just knew that it was cold outside.

“Yes, master-sir,” the elf answered back quickly. Proof of what a bizarre day it was, Kreacher was being helpful. Normally he would give Harry a _master_ soaked in vinegar and bile because he knew Harry didn’t like to be called that. Now he was adding a _sir_ like blowing cool air on a burn. 

“Just do as you were. And let me know if there are any changes.” He had his coat on and his hand on the doorknob. His gloves were in the coat’s pockets because as much as Harry would like to enjoy his fortune, _fortunes_ actually, since he had inherited Sirius’ too, and as much as he tried to buy fancy things for himself, he was not used to it. There was a place for the gloves, Kreacher made a point of putting them there, a drawer in the chiffonier in the foyer. But did Harry ever remember about it? No. Just as he had given up on using cufflinks. If he wanted to use his gloves he had to keep them in the pockets of his coat.

His fingers closed on the doorknob and he hesitated. “But don’t, don’t leave, okay?” For Merlin’s sake, no, someone had to stay. “Send me a note with Aeneas, I guess.”

Kreacher gave his agreement and he didn’t mumble or mutter for once. The cold air hit Harry’s face almost painfully as he stepped outside. It felt good, as if the cold would force his head to behave and sort his thoughts in order.

It was a brief sensation. Once he had descended the steps Harry took his wand out and disapparated.

ooOoo

“Harry! It’s good to see you,” said Luna, honestly happy to see Harry. Luna was a gift. She was weird and odd and extravagant, but she was a gift of kindness and Harry wanted to hunt down each and every person who had ever mocked her or taken her things to hide them. He wanted to drag them down to a dirty river where Harry would drown them a little bit. Not enough to kill them, but enough that they swallowed dirty water and felt very sorry about their past actions.

Luna knew about not caring and about appreciating beauty and about loss and death.

She invited him in. Luna was now living on her own in a tiny cottage in Lincolnshire. She was still very attached to her father and visited him twice a week, but she thought it was good for her to live independently. The cottage was quite isolated and it was small, so it looked like something out of a book. It might have seemed lonely, her being all by herself in the country, but Luna was making a living out of breeding and caring for magical creatures so it suited her well. She had lots of space and she didn’t bother anyone or put them in danger with her animals.

“Funny thing,” she had told Harry when they all came to visit, back when she had first bought the place. Harry had come with Ginny (first time he’d seen her in ten days, which was one of the problems in their relationship) and Ron and Hermione had come together, and Dean and Seamus had also been there. Neville was still studying in New Zealand, but he sent his best. Harry remembered distinctly the lemon tea Luna had served them and the lemon cake with poppy seeds and petals.

Funny thing. Luna told Harry that the cottage used to belong to Remus Lupin. He had lived there until he accepted the DADA position at Hogwarts. He didn’t return to the cottage after he was forced to resign. Harry knew that he had been helping Sirius during the next year, and then he had been working with the Order and living in Grimmauld Place before moving to Tonks’ place.

And then, just four years after he left Hogwarts, five after he left that cottage, he had been murdered.

Knowing that Lupin had lived there made the place sad. Lupin, who liked people and company, and was so understanding with his students. He had lived there like an exile. Far away from anyone who would hate him and fear him, far away enough that he wouldn’t hurt someone during the moon; but so alone.

Luna made the place feel different. It was still lonely, but she brought out the beauty of the environment. When she was around, the never-ending sea of green was more visible and lyrical. 

Harry now sat down on an old purple puff that seemed only slightly more stable than any of the crooked chairs. Luna sat in front of him in one of those chairs (Harry was right, it bobbed) and crossed her legs as if she were sitting on the floor.

“You look worried, Harry. Preoccupied,” she said. This time the tea smelled like lavender. He wasn’t sure that Luna was serving him tea at all.

“I need help,” he said, quick and firm. Let it not be said that Harry Potter refused to ask people for help and had a hero complex that pushed him to do things all by himself. _He_ was not the problem. “Advice,” he added. He needed advice on what to do. He had no problem with doing the thing alone, but a general idea of what to do would be good.

“Oh,” said Luna softly, her eyebrows rising in slight surprise. That was the thing about Luna, everything was slight and gentle with her. She never looked completely despondent, merely a bit sad. She was never shocked, just slightly taken aback. She wasn’t mad with joy, just pleased and content.

This was a virtue, except when it was about disappointment. Luna not being surprised by bad behaviour, that was a bad thing. But Harry supposed that was what made her Luna. Most people tended to only see her optimism and took it for ignorance, but Luna was optimistic while also being well aware of the tragedies of the world.

“I can’t say anyone has ever asked me for advice before,” she said. Harry wrapped his hands around the mug and let the heat of the china seep through. “Help with something, yes. My notes, or borrowing a scarf. Sometimes Ginny asks me what I think. But I don’t think I have ever been asked for Advice, in capitals. This is a new experience, Harry!”

The lavender tea smelled better than it tasted.

Harry was pretty good at explaining difficult and convoluted things. He had gotten quite a lot of experience. Many long talks with Dumbledore that he later recounted to Ron and Hermione. Many talks with Dumbledore (and sometimes Madam Pomfrey) about yet another dangerous and extravagant adventure. Dozens of reports on his work as an Auror.

Harry knew how to present a series of events; how to include the context that led to making one decision and not another; how to explain the facts as they were, without bragging and without removing anything to be humble. He was good at it. When he first joined the Auror Office there had been this general assumption that he would be good in the field but not so good with the paperwork afterwards, given his long history of skirting or plainly ignoring the rules. But it turned out that he had no problem with that. He filed his reports clearly and on time, and he knew that a couple of them had found their way to the Auror Academy without anyone telling him.

If he had any problems with his work, it was long before and after the mission. He had problems with the policies that dictated who and what to prosecute, and he had problems with the punishments. Not that they weren’t doing good. They were chasing bad people for sure. But sometimes Harry thought that they were going at it sideways. That if only they implemented certain policies earlier, they wouldn’t have to do the chasing and arresting later on.

But this was not the point. The point was that Harry could explain very well, had done so many times, and yet he found himself tongue-tied now.

“I think I have some cherry biscuits,” said Luna knowingly. “Let me get the box.”

The cherry biscuits tasted weird and so did the lavender tea and it was cold in the cottage. It needed better insulation and neither Lupin nor Luna had gotten around fixing it. All the repair work had been directed to keeping the monster confined.

Harry explained What Had Happened. How he had panicked and acted without thinking but now that he was going back over it again he thought he would do exactly the same. (Yes, trust issues! No need to point it out.) Basically, he needed someone who could research the legal implications and also if there was any historical precedent and if there was a charm or potion to fix the situation permanently, which was what worried Harry the most: that it might go away and be for nothing.

He pushed away his empty mug, making a point of not looking at the leaves. There was a green-black feathery creature sleeping in a cage. He preferred looking at that.

Luna nodded in understanding. She said that the Ministry could consider it theft of their property and she wasn’t accusing, merely pointing out the fact that Harry might have stolen something belonging to the Ministry of Magic. Well, not stolen, unlawfully appropriated. Purloined, even.

Luna took a deep breath and shrugged while she looked out the window. “I don’t know what kind of charm could help with this, if any.” It was starting to rain a little bit and her eyes were fixed on the drops of water in the kitchen’s window. Her brow furrowed in concentration. “I could get you some chamomile tea for the nausea, and spicy bread. It tends to go down well.”

Harry was so desperate that he found himself nodding with enthusiasm. Luna turned to look back at him.

“I will help you, Harry. I don’t know if I can find a solution, but I will help you.”

Harry had a moment to feel guilty for not having thought of Luna right away. He felt immensely grateful as he watched her grab the right tin of chamomile tea, check that the feathery creature had food and water, and put her coat on.

They were by the door. Luna had gotten a pink scarf and a hat on. She was tying her bootlaces when she spoke, almost as if she were thinking out loud, or as if she were dreaming.

“It’s a pity about that rivalry in school, because he would have some idea of what to do.”

“What?”

“He was always right behind Hermione in marks, and they were both miles away from everyone else. You know Ravenclaws seek knowledge, but we are not very good students. We get distracted easily.”

She opened the door and stepped outside, Harry following her after a beat. Far away in the field there was a small herd of thestrals. Nowadays there were many more people able to see them, but the number of people able to care for and domesticate them had stayed the same. 

“Who is almost as smart as Hermione?” Harry asked as he blinked away the drizzle falling on his face. This was very important. Someone almost as smart as Hermione would no doubt be able to help with— with everything. With the legal issues and the historical precedents and the charms and potions research.

Luna’s pink wool hat had a pattern of bats sewn into it. She put a hand in the crook of Harry’s arm so he could apparate them and said:

“Who? Draco Malfoy.”

ooOoo

It was not as if Harry had forgotten him. He simply had been preoccupied with other things. He thought that the last time he had seen Draco had been after the trial that exonerated the Malfoy family. Not only had Harry testified (he owed it to them, maybe not to Lucius because he was a dick, but to Draco and Narcissa and their very convenient inability to recognise him and his vital signs), but also, once the trial was done, Harry had gone to Draco and sneakily returned his wand.

The Ministry had been talking about wand expropriation for certain wizards who participated in the war. Harry understood how the general public would feel better if some people didn’t have access to a wand, and this was certainly much better than the end of the last war when they were sending people to Azkaban without trial. But he didn’t like it. Not having a wand could be very incapacitating, especially when the Ministry was also seizing their fortunes and all their belongings. Harry was of the opinion that one should be merciful with the defeated enemy, if only so that they would be less inclined to stab you in the back for a bowl of cold soup.

So he had given Draco his wand back and Draco had said his thanks and they had parted ways. That must have been… seven or eight years ago. Harry thought they must have crossed paths in between, exchanged a few polite nods in the distance, but he certainly hadn’t been tracking the trajectory of one Draco Malfoy. Not when he had been going through the Auror Academy and then through his first cases as an Auror with the added weight of being Harry Potter The Boy Who Slayed You Know Who. His mistakes weighed twice as much as those of any other novice.

There had also been Ginny, and trying to make it work and seeing that it wouldn’t and desperately fighting to at least keep their friendship and mutual understanding intact (one of the few things that had gone right in Harry’s life). Plus there was all the added effort of maintaining friendships when they were all doing different things with their lives. Not to speak of the nightmares and that dreadful sensation that had taken residence in Harry’s stomach and that had a lot to do with feeling alone and like he never really mattered to anyone, that he was only a tool. That feeling had only gotten better recently, but also worse; less present but more raw when he felt it.

So he had no idea of what had happened to Draco Malfoy during these years, but he was about to find out because Harry was going to reach out to him. He sat down at the big desk in the library with a determined expression. The quill and inkwell scuttled to his right hand without being called. Luna was with Kreacher in the living room, seeing if her chamomile tea and her spicy bread had any effect. She had arrived to the house, taken a look, and pointedly tied her hair in a ponytail, a wordless indication that Harry’s account didn’t match the dramatic reality of the living room. Then she had set to work. She had charmed Kreacher faster than anyone Harry had ever . She had done the same with Dobby, but Dobby had been very different.

Harry rolled the end of the quill over his fingers, smearing them with ink as he debated whether he should start the letter with “Dear Draco” or not. Draco wasn’t dear to him, but he was about to ask him a favour so he couldn’t just start with a demanding “Draco” and a comma.

It was the single hardest piece of writing of Harry’s life. No exam had ever been as hard as this. Even Umbridge’s punishments would have been preferable because the scratch of the quill on his hand was _nothing_ compared to the scratch on his brain as he agonised over his verb choice. He tried at the same time to be firm, polite, explain that this was important, avoid giving the impression that it was important enough that Harry could be subjected to blackmail, remind Draco that he totally _owed him one_, avoid sounding too much like a dick about the last point and not give too much away.

To be fair, Hermione wouldn’t have been able to help him in this. She could have helped with the research and the magic, thus avoiding the necessity of writing to Draco; but Harry seriously doubted that she could have written anything better. Ron and Ginny would definitely have been worse. Was there anyone who could be civil to an old enemy? Lupin, maybe, and look what that brought him.

At last Harry signed and closed the letter and gave it to Aeneas, his owl. Then he went back to the living room where he was informed that they had seen some success with the spicy bread, that Kreacher ought to rest, and that tomorrow Luna was going to bring some water of liquorice.

ooOoo

Aeneas returned the next morning, just as Harry was finishing showering and before he went down for breakfast. He hadn’t realised it yesterday but he had ended up sending the letter a bit late at night and Aeneas was far from being a fast owl. He was in fact quite slow, so the letter might have arrived _very_ late at night.

Harry was a wizard in a wizarding house which apparently meant that he _had_ to have an owl of his own. He hadn’t really seen why. When he was in the Auror Academy, the pace of training had been exhausting enough that at the end of the day they could barely twitch a finger, let alone _write_ to anyone. Later on when Harry had been working, he had been _working_ and not supposed to be sending private letters. Any communication was done through official channels. If he had something urgent to say he could always borrow Pigwidgeon from Ginny. He thought that even now he would be allowed to do that.

(Harry didn’t have that many people to write to, and he saw them at regular intervals. Having a regular time and meeting place was the only reason he and Ginny had lasted so long as a couple. Between his Auror training and her training on the Quidditch team, they could only date on weekends while running errands at the same time and meeting with their other friends. Until Ron quit the Aurors he had always been around, and Ron was the person Harry talked to the most. When Harry wrote to Hermione in Munich he got an owl from the post office or, more conveniently, sent a letter through the muggle postal service which was on average two days faster.)

Harry still didn’t see why he needed to keep an owl, but he had eventually reached a point where even Ginny said he ought to have his own, not that she minded loaning him Pigwidgeon, so he had gone to Eeylops Owl Emporium knowing very well that he simply wasn’t going to like any of the owls there because none of them were Hedwig.

The shop assistant had been nice even before he realised he was talking to Harry Potter. These days Harry looked almost as wealthy as he was and that guaranteed a different kind of treatment. The assistant had shown him multiple owls and even some other birds of prey that he promised were the perfect fit for someone in Harry’s line of work. They were beautiful and had shiny colourful feathers and impressive beaks and, predictably, Harry hadn’t liked any of them. He had been thinking of a polite excuse to say no and leave when his eyes fell on Aeneas’s cage on the background.

Aeneas was old. Aeneas was a bit fat. Aeneas was also missing an eye and his last owners didn’t want him anymore. They had brought him to the shop and payed twelve sickles to be rid of him.

Harry took him. If he wasn’t going to love his owl, he reasoned, he should get an owl that no one was going to love. Besides, no matter what the bemused assistant said, Aeneas was far from being totally useless. He could deliver letters just fine, only on his own schedule and with a bonky aim.

(Harry was lying to himself. He liked this owl, he might even love him a little bit. Aeneas was always so pleased when he scratched the top of his head! Also there was something so devastatingly endearing in his clumsy aim.)

He was scratching Aeneas’s head now as the owl lifted a leg for Harry to take the letter. Harry’s letter. The one he had written last night.

“This is my letter, Aeneas,” Harry said, frustrated but without anger. He just couldn’t get angry with that old fat idiot. He only had one eye and he stared at Harry adoringly with it. 

Aeneas shook his shoulders, which was always fun to see an owl do.

“This is the letter I gave you,” Harry explained patiently. “Did you not find the address?”

But of course the owl had found it, or so he seemed to say as he stared at Harry with his single yellow eye. He opened his beak to demand a treat.

“All right, then.”

ooOoo

“Kreacher, I want you to deliver this letter,” Harry said to the elf over the vapours of a potion. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Harry Potter was willingly brewing a potion and also trying very hard not to think of Snape or Slughorn or Hogwarts. Just the steps to get the blood-replenishing potion right.

“Yes, master,” said the elf, taking the letter from Harry’s hands. There was no sarcasm or sass or veiled criticism. Not even a muttered wish that Harry drop dead. He said “master” absentmindedly, like an old familiar word that came easily to his lips rather than the weapon he hurled at Harry’s face. Truly, either Kreacher was getting old or he was as affected by recent events as Harry was.

“Request an answer, will you?”

“Yes.”

ooOoo

The brew had to rest for a while. In the meantime Harry fixed a sandwich for himself, got _The Prophet,_ and went directly to the cartoon section because he didn’t feel like he could handle the news today and the cartoons were always good. There was a satirical cartoon about politics that he barely glanced at (something about goblins) and then there was the _Ruff!_ comic strip. _Ruff! _was the title, not the name of the author. It was about a wizard and his dog, drawn in the simplest possible style, and it invariably made Harry feel better. Last year’s Halloween special starred him, or actually Barry Powder, and it had startled a loud and honest laugh out of Harry. He had cut it out and had it framed and it now hung in the library, which was one of his favourite spots in the house.

(The one in which the wizard tried to pass the dog off as a dragon was also very funny.)

Today’s strip had the dog grabbing a dementor by its cloak and playing tug of war with it. He was soon joined by the patronus of its owner, which was a silver copy of the dog.

Luna sent an owl with the promised water of liquorice and a note saying that she had work to attend to. Thestrals were carnivorous after all and it wasn’t safe to let them go hungry. She would try to drop by in the evening though. Also, Harry should try singing because music drove away the wrackspurts.

Harry did not sing, but he turned on the old gramophone in case it helped.

ooOoo

The music did not help.

Harry didn’t want to listen to that particular song ever again.

ooOoo

When Kreacher returned, Harry was in the library cursing himself for not making a decent catalogue of the library books. Since yesterday morning he had had time to find six promising books that later proved to be no use at all. He was now making slow progress with the seventh one which, quite fittingly in view of current events, had been banned for the last half century and could only be stored in institutional libraries.

In fact Harry would say that about a third of the books in the Black library were illegal to have now. Maybe more. Some books were preserved for knowledge’s sake but couldn’t be owned by individuals and Harry thought he might have a copy of every one of them, hot off the Ministry’s forbidden list. He had even found one that mentioned horcruxes in passing and he knew how rare that was. Any other time he might have stopped and read the entry, but at the moment he was task-focussed.

“Kreacher! Did you— ?”

“Yes… Sir.”

“And…?” Harry wavered searching for the next word. For the last nine years he had been trying to get Kreacher to drop the “master” and call him Harry or HarryPotter or “sir” as a compromise. Kreacher refused and Harry was hesitant to press the point because it was so rare for a house elf to have a preference and stick to it.

Kreacher handed Harry an envelope and went to the living room without breaking his stride. Harry thought that might be enormously disrespectful, not waiting by his feet to see what orders Harry had, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Never had, with Kreacher. Except for when he was rude to Hermione or Ginny, Harry enjoyed in a perverse way Kreacher’s colossal insolence. Besides, it was good to have someone in the living room, even if Harry had left the door open.

He looked at the envelope eagerly only to have his stomach (and that dreaded feeling that lived in it) drop as he realised that it was, once again, his own letter.

Unopened.

Unlike with Aeneas, there was proof that Kreacher had gotten a hold of bloody Malfoy and that not opening Harry’s very carefully written letter was deliberate. Harry had requested an answer and he had gotten one, written in pencil on the back of the envelope.

“Fuck off,” it said. Harry couldn’t help noticing that it was nice handwriting, very clear. Malfoy’s notes would be easy to read.

Harry didn’t have much time to think about Draco Malfoy, his beautiful handwriting, and what an ungrateful bastard he was or how he was going to convince him to help. He spent the next few hours finishing the ironforte brew and discovering that he had wasted his time because it had no effect and in fact it might have made things worse. Then he ate the soup Kreacher had prepared while Harry was busy in the living room with the stupid potion that the stupid guide from the stupid Auror Academy said worked miracles. He used Luna’s water of liquorice which was supposed to help with many things, including stomach bleeding, and only had half of the desired effect: it succeeded in disguising the smell of blood, which wasn’t a small thing.

Harry was right back where he had started that morning, maybe even worse if he was honest with himself. He had made things worse. His stomach hurt.

All afternoon, whenever there was a moment of peace, Harry went to the library and looked at the books in search of the one that might have a solution. At this point Harry would content himself with any reference to a similar occurrence, so at least he would know what had already been tried and failed. Even a book saying that there was no solution and failure was the only option would be a comfort. Harry could prepare for _that_ and make things less painful. Right now he didn’t know if his attempts to fix it weren’t somehow cruel. There were moments when he believed so.

By evening time Harry had made little progress on his research and he was feeling light-headed. The horrible feeling residing in his stomach had crawled up to his chest and sunk its claws in his lungs and heart. Plus, and he couldn’t believe this was something that mattered, there weren’t any clean handkerchiefs in the whole house. Nor did they have clean towels. Kreacher was just done washing two sets, but they weren’t dry yet.

Harry had resorted to using napkins. Old and embroidered with the family crest of the Blacks, very expensive, but if they didn’t want them stained with blood then they shouldn’t keep them on the main floor where Harry might find them. Who “they” was he didn’t know or care. Certainly not the portraits, who had been silent and unhelpful through all this.

Luna arrived at dinner time. She had more spicy bread (Harry had tried a tiny piece, it was horrible), flower water (whatever that was) and the thought that honey might help. She would see if she could get her hands on a particularly good jar.

“And how are you?” she asked, sitting on the floor of the living room. She was wearing a pair of jeans, which was an unusual sight on a pureblooded witch, but jeans were very convenient when one was trudging in the mud in November trying to teach a herd of thestrals what could and could not be eaten. There was a smudge of white paint on her left thigh that almost resembled a group of stars.

Harry didn’t have to pretend to be brave. He could answer honestly.

“I feel very alone,” he said, “and I am scared of doing things wrong.”

“Well, I think you made the right choice,” said Luna, wiping her hands on the second-to-last clean napkin. “And this is hardly the first time you were made to feel alone and doubt yourself, Harry. Come, let’s have dinner.”

They ate whatever Kreacher put before them. Usually Harry didn’t mind fixing something for himself, but Kreacher didn’t like it when he was in the kitchen and today he had hissed at Harry like an angry cat. Luna said that she was staying and that Harry should go to sleep, she would be in the living room and help however she could.

Harry was so tired that he didn’t even reject her offer once out of politeness. He got up slowly, dropped a kiss on her hair, and blindly made his way up to his room. He hadn’t really slept the last two nights.

ooOoo

Harry got six blessed beautiful hours of sleep before he was woken up by another crisis and he had to run down barefoot and with his glasses askew. He found Luna by the couch, pale and scared and her eyes wet with tears of impotence. She had promised to help, and she had, but she didn’t know what to do and neither did Harry (or Kreacher).

“I’m going to find Malfoy,” he said, panting slightly. “If he can find a solution, then I’m making him figure it out.”

However, no matter how serious Harry was about finding Malfoy, he had other things to do first. For starters, he should get dressed.

Luna went back home after breakfast. Harry had offered her any room she liked in the house, but she wanted to check on the animals. It was a pity. Harry understood, of course, and he couldn’t ask more of her, but the house smelled better when Luna was there. When she was gone the only smells were sickness and sweat.

Harry _was_ going to talk to Malfoy. He would have Kreacher apparate him there and then immediately pop back to Grimmauld Place. But before he did that he was going to the apothecary on Diagon Alley because the very urgent matter at hand wasn’t letting him attend to the more important matter of finding a long-term solution.

Luck was on his side because just as Harry was stepping out of the apothecary he saw a head of almost-white hair across the street.

Harry didn’t immediately call after Malfoy. It would be understandable if he did, if he cried “Malfoy!” and began to run, but it would also be very stupid. Evidently Malfoy didn’t want to talk to Harry, so Harry wasn’t going to give him a chance to run or apparate away. It was better to follow him and shorten the distance between them without being spotted.

Was he treating this like an arrest? Maybe. But he couldn’t risk Malfoy getting away without giving Harry the chance to explain his very sensible arguments. He followed him and said only, “Good morning, Malfoy,” when he reached his side. Harry had also made sure to come from the broad side of the street so Malfoy wouldn’t be able to sidestep him as easily. On Malfoy’s other side there was a brick wall and then the closed storefront of a failed fish-and-chips shop.

“I need a favour of you,” added Harry in a single breath. He had very good endurance. It was important that an Auror be able to run and then cast his spells without panting. “If we could talk.”

“Fuck off,” Malfoy said, not even breaking his stride, eyes still straight ahead, as if Harry were a disgusting hobgoblin selling rat cakes. He looked quite elegant doing it. The vulgarity was less so in his mouth.

“Come on, Malfoy.” Harry had to do an awkward half-run after him which did not look elegant at all.

“No.”

This time Harry jumped in front of him and even planted a hand on Malfoy’s chest for emphasis. Malfoy gave a step back quickly, almost as if Harry’s hand had burned him. He frowned spectacularly and for the first time he looked at Harry’s face with an expression of dread and disgust. Harry didn’t know what he had been expecting but it wasn’t this, this loathing that seemed just as intense as when they were children.

“Malfoy, _please_, I gave you your wand back…” Which in retrospect might have sounded a bit assholeish, but Harry meant to say that there was a precedence of friendly behaviour. Malfoy’s expression of disgust was uncalled for. They had reached an understanding.

“Too bad,” snapped Malfoy, sidestepping him.

“…and all I’m asking is that you— ”

“Potter: Leave. Me. Alone.”

“But— ”

They were making a scene. A small one, but it could turn much bigger any second. Normally Harry would try to talk it out but he was tired (six hours of sleep wasn’t enough, not when he had barely slept the previous two nights). He was also stressed, very scared, and just paranoid and sharp enough to get a glimpse of someone with a head of red hair reflected on the storefront glass. That meant they were coming up on Harry’s seven and that in ten more steps they would see him arguing with Malfoy. Nothing wrong with that; for once arguing with Malfoy wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Harry couldn’t let the Weasleys know and also that they would totally read in his face that there was something very wrong.

He might have been able to deal with it, there were red-headed wizards that were not Weasleys after all and even though Harry didn’t want to lie he could come up with something. But he had just noticed a stocky figure with a worn green coat to his right that looked a lot like Benford. Benford was a gossip and an envious man and the embodiment of every bad trait from Slytherin house. Harry absolutely did not want Benford to know anything.

Malfoy was stepping further back, turning away, and Harry’s Auror training kicked in. He couldn’t have Malfoy leaving and he couldn’t have the Weasleys or bloody Benford around. He grabbed Malfoy’s right arm by the crook of the elbow (which restricted wand movement) automatically and with a small flick apparated them to the front door of Grimmauld Place.

Auror training should have prepared him for what came next, but somehow Harry had thought that with his wand arm immobilised Malfoy wouldn’t be a problem. He was proved wrong with a kick to the ankle and a very sharp elbow to the nose. Malfoy was a bony bastard.

“Wait! I just need you to— Wait!”

Harry might be taller than Malfoy now, he wasn’t sure because he still thought of himself as short even after his growth spurt. He was certainly heavier and full of lean muscle so he was able to grab Malfoy and stop him from getting away. Malfoy kept hitting him with unexpected viciousness and since Harry didn’t want to hurt him, was quite interested in Malfoy remaining unhurt in fact, he was barely able to block the hits. At least he managed to drag him inside where Harry was sure that he could talk to him and make him understand, even if he had to do so while Malfoy kept trying to claw his eyes out.

Malfoy finally managed to free his right arm, elbow Harry in the stomach, and quickly step away in a graceful dance. The foyer in Grimmauld Place was very dark, however, very dark. Those who came in from the street needed some time to adjust their eyes to the darkness and those who were already inside might feel as if there was no door. Malfoy had gotten himself a bit turned around so it was perfectly understandable that his eyes went right over the main door, even if he had just come that way, and instead took two steps into the living room.

He stopped brusquely, sharply, the heel of his right foot raised in the air in an aborted step, his left hand extended for balance. His hair was long now, longer that his father’s had been, and he wore it in a ponytail that was messy from the struggle. It reminded Harry of something, but he wasn’t sure of what.

Up until now Harry had chased Malfoy out of desperation because he was the only possibility presented to him. But now he saw what Luna meant. Malfoy’s eyes were alight and thunderous as they jumped between the two figures lying on the sofas of the living room. He looked at the one on the right—searching for an injury that wasn’t there—and at the same time tried to pinpoint the resemblance of the one on the left. A young man who looked so much like someone who had almost never looked like himself. 

Harry could tell that Malfoy was wavering between exclaiming a soft, composed “oh” and a less dignified but undoubtedly more satisfying “what the fuck!”

“What,” he said at last, flatly. He planted his feet more firmly on the floor and lowered his hand. He was too surprised and curious to leave now. To be honest, Harry had been counting on that.

“Potter, what,” he demanded without looking back, eyes still fixed on the scene in the living room.

“Yeah, I don’t know, Malfoy. I was hoping you would figure it out.”

ooOoo

Harry’s last day of work as an Auror had been on Friday, which was quite neat. Like your total coming to one galleon or exactly fifteen sickles. However, on Friday he was only required to drop off his badge and sign some papers so his actual last day of work as an Auror was the previous Thursday. If one wanted to be even more precise, Harry’s last day of work was a Tuesday two weeks ago when he gave his final notice and explained to the department Head for the third time that yes, he meant it, he was serious and they should take his letter of resignation.

The more they argued against it the more Harry wanted out. It was maddening and it felt like a special kind of torture designed by Dolores Umbridge. They said that Harry was one of their best Aurors (true), that he was so talented (true), that his departure would be such a terrible loss (true, also guilt tripping). Then they asked _why_ he wanted to leave, as if it were the first time anyone had ever wanted to change jobs, as if Ron hadn’t gone through the same process three years ago without anyone batting an eye. (Granted, Ron had been indecently close to dying. It would be obscene to say a word against his leaving). But when Harry explained his reasons they told him that no, he was wrong, those weren’t valid reasons and he couldn’t possibly think that.

It was that refusal that cemented Harry’s decision to leave.

No place was perfect, Harry could understand that. But lately he had come to realise that the Ministry as a whole and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in particular, of which the Auror Office was part, was even more imperfect than originally thought.

And they were fine with it and they didn’t want to change.

So Harry was getting out of there. He had pushed his letter towards Gawain Robards, head of the Auror Office, tapping it twice as he got up from the chair. For the next two weeks he didn’t take on any new cases no matter how hard they were pushed his way, and focussed instead on finishing the paperwork of the old ones so as to not leave a mess behind. The lack of legwork and action meant that Harry spent even more time at the office and that its faults became all the more visible. Harry thought he might have to get his teeth checked from all the grinding and bile-swallowing he was doing.

It had been a long time coming and it was a pervasive matter so asking Harry what was the proverbial last straw was unfair. It was not a single straw; the problem was the big pile of straw underneath, the fire hazard of straw, the freaking barn full of straw that could not be ignored any longer.

It wasn’t about the Corridan case, like some had suggested. Hell, the Aurors had been the good guys in that mess while the idiots from the MLE Patrol were the ones sitting on their hands being useless. Harry would have liked to intervene in the case because it was so freaking obvious that they had the wrong guy and that the witness account was suspicious, but of course he hadn’t been allowed to. He wasn’t bitter about that (well, maybe a bit) and it certainly hadn’t been the big influential event. It was something else. Someone else.

Her name was Gorlois. The straw that broke the camel’s back, the drop that overflowed the glass. Gorlois of the Green Eyes but the last part was not considered a last name so it was between quotes in her file. Gorlois was a wild witch living in the mountains of Scotland. The kind who didn’t go to Hogwarts and might not even have a wand. She had wild matted blonde hair that seemed to Harry more distinctive than her green eyes, which were actually light and watery.

She might not have had a Hogwarts’ education, but she had been difficult to bring down anyway. She had a staff of common ash and a stone knife and she had used both against them. Inside her hut, in the hearth of the fire, they had found human bones and teeth. Some big, some small enough to look like a goblin’s except for the colour. Goblin’s bones were steel grey and these were, well, bone white.

She was bad and the world would be slightly better and safer with her under arrest. She was bad, that’s what Harry kept repeating to himself. He had seen the bones and he had heard her confession.

But they had found the bones (and the gold ring and necklace, and a few garments) _inside _her hut _after_ they arrested her. They had heard her screamed confession, full of insults and curses, while they moved her to the holding cells in the Ministry.

She was bad, but she might not have been. She might have been a crazy old woman living by herself in the mountains. It seemed to Harry that not going to Hogwarts and not owning a comb had been enough to have her searched.

Nobody had told Harry that they didn’t have any tangible evidence against her, that they didn’t even have a particular suspicion, just the knowledge that she lived in the area. Maybe that was the straw, that they knew that he would want something more before barging inside someone’s house, so they didn’t tell him.

Caecilius, from the Department of Mysteries, had come and taken her staff and knife. He had given them a pink ticket for the items because they were part of an Auror investigation, and they had filed the pink tickets in the appropriate folder knowing that they would never see them again. It wasn’t very important this time; they had the other evidence that they had gathered afterwards (the ring, the necklace, the bones). But many other times the Department of Mysteries had taken things that the Aurors needed to further their investigation or to prove that someone was guilty. Things that could have easily gone to the Department of Mysteries in a year, after the investigation was done and the trial ended. But Mysteries always took them as soon as they heard of them and they never gave them back.

Truth was, most of the time the Wizengamot accepted the pink tickets as evidence. Oh yes, this person had something dark and dangerous all right, says it here on the ticket. Plus, Aurors were trusted witnesses by default, which made Harry’s job easier but Harry’s job shouldn’t be made easier. Harry’s job required asking difficult questions and finding difficult answers and it should stay that way.

Harry knew he was fighting against dark and evil wizards. They were bad and if he ever had a doubt that it might not be the case he let them go with a warning. But he wasn’t completely sure that he was working for light and good wizards.

So he handed in his resignation letter and he was firm about it and spent his last two weeks writing very detailed memos so his replacement would know what each case was about. On Friday morning he went to hand over his badge and sign his discharge papers with at least three different departments. His farewell from the office had been… tepid. Not cold because he was still Harry Potter Saviour of the Wizarding World, but not particularly full of warm wishes either.

That had been around ten in the morning, which was a perfectly average and normal time.

ooOoo

There are rules governing the universe but often times those rules are so absurd and convoluted that saying “because” is easier than following the obscure logic that explains how they work. Besides, it is an ever-changing logic so what works one minute won’t the next.

They had died exactly nineteen years apart. The older had died thirty-one days before he turned nineteen. The younger died thirty-one days after he stopped being nineteen. He was twenty, but he was also nineteen and an extra month.

The universe likes that kind of symmetry.

It was the beginning of the second-to-last month of the year. Just like nineteen is almost but not quite on the verge of change, too old to be a child and too young to be an adult. November is too cold to be autumn but too early for winter.

These were not pretty numbers. They did not have the round perfection of the five and the zero, they did not have that magic energy of seven and twelve. They were in-between and weird, but they were aligning nicely.

It might have been easier saying “because.”

And it was a very small window of time, so small that it should have opened and closed without anything happening. By themselves the two of them were not powerful enough, important enough, to pull through. But this was not about themselves, this was about the power they had together, the symmetry of opposition. The magic of a mirror.

One had died in darkness, in the water.

The other had died surrounded by light and fire.

That was enough to forge a bond. Together they weighed enough to go through the well and that passage full of wind and the desert with black sand and a white sky, together, just then, they had enough strength to pull that veil aside…

and take a step

two

three

and fall down, knees bobbling, legs collapsing under them,

and take a painful, painful breath that felt as if their lungs were full of needles and sand.

And after that another and another and another, painful, terrible, breathing. Alive, alive, alive.

ooOoo

There had been absolutely no good reason for Harry to be in the Department of Mysteries. None. Yet there he was, after telling himself that the line to the lifts was too long and that he could take the stairs. He had stopped on sub-level nine and crossed the corridor that went to the Entrance Chamber with the moving doors.

There was no good reason for Harry’s presence except that it was his last day in the Ministry and the farewell in the Auror Office had been awkward and unsatisfactory and Harry needed to say goodbye in his own way.

He was not supposed to be there. The Unspeakables were very jealous of their department. But what were they going to do? It was his last day, the one day when he got a pass. The one day he could take liberties and take a double portion of dessert at the cafeteria but only pay for one piece. (Not that he did; if anything Harry over-payed never under-payed anyone.) He was not supposed to be there, but he _could_. Besides he could always say that he wanted to say goodbye and leave without feeling like they were enemies, which was an outrageous lie but would be well received by the Unspeakables. The other departments hardly spoke to them.

The palm of his left hand was prickling and Harry had to close his hand over the doorknob of the door that went to the Death Room. The door wasn’t labelled but Harry knew it was that room because to this day he could hear a murmur coming from it. People hadn’t really believed him the first time he mentioned it, though. Only Luna had said that she could hear it too, soft voices from beyond the Veil, but people never took anything she said seriously.

[He thought that Unspeakables Thompson and Treeroot might have believed him; they had looked at Harry with interest when they overheard him telling Ron and then he and Ron had to sit in a closet for an hour so they wouldn’t come across them on the way out. Harry hadn’t been sure why they needed to avoid them; he only knew that having the interest of the Department of Mysteries made him uncomfortable. Ron had insisted, however, that it was best to stay away from them and Ron knew more about these things. Thompson had that unfortunate accident with the brain tank soon after, so Harry hadn’t been bothered about it anymore.]

The murmur was different on Friday, a different cadence. Something almost like a buzz, an irate, annoyed buzz.

Harry opened the door thinking that he would indulge his weird melancholic mood for a minute and then he would go home and ask Kreacher to make something good and fatty for lunch and he would look at the real estate papers. He just, he just needed a minute there first.

He looked at the cursed arch and the Veil, thin and delicate and as opaque as ever. His eyes fell on the arch even before he was done going through the door. He hadn’t really intended to let the door close behind him because he wasn’t going to stay there that long. Just a peek and he would leave. But the Veil had moved and then two figures had stumbled out of the arch and fallen to the floor gasping for breath and of course Harry had let go of the door.

Harry’s very first thought was “shit”, followed by “thank Merlin this is my last day”. He was halfway down the stairs already before the thought of Sirius crossed his mind because Harry was the kind of stupid person who jumped to action with little thought or care. There was people down there that needed help.

People— or monsters from an unknown dimension that had come in disguise to feed on humans. But Harry was running towards them. Whatever they were, it didn’t change the need to run in their direction.

“Are you all right? Here,” he said as he skidded to a stop. There was quite a lot of coughing and desperate intakes of breath and trembling. Harry helped them sit upright to alleviate the coughing, but it looked like something more than coughing, something painful and terrible. “Are you— are you Unspeakables?”

“Plenty of people speak to me,” mumbled the one resting against Harry, face buried on his chest and one arm thrown over Harry’s shoulders. The other had given up on standing and was resting on his side, his hands clutching the rough stone of the floor as if the room were moving.

Harry thought in that moment that his knees had turned to jelly and that he might join them on the floor, because it was… It was so full of optimism and cheer, that simple sentence. So in character! He hadn’t dared think it when he saw the carrot orange hair, just as he had pushed down the thought about Sirius even though the other man had the same long black hair. Harry rose his hand and clumsily touched that face that rested against his chest. The left ear was intact and still attached to the head.

“Oh, dear,” Fred Weasley said in a faint slur before throwing up all over himself, Harry, and the floor.

“It hurts so much,” said the other man. Boy. Person. The other one, lying on the floor and pressing his left temple against the rough stone. He had avoided Fred’s vomit by pure luck. “I can’t breathe, it is too dark.”

ooOoo

What Harry should have done was this:

  * Identify if there was any need for urgent medical care.
  * Provide medical assistance where he could. (Aurors received training on this.)
  * Alert the authorities about the situation.
  * Accept that since he wasn’t an Auror anymore he had to follow the rules and protocols of the Department of Mysteries. (Even if he were still an Auror it probably wouldn’t matter, he was in their territory after all.)
  * Yield to their authority, give his statement, leave when prompted.

What he had done instead was:

  * Give a cursory examination for open wounds.
  * Help them up.
  * Take them to the door.
  * Hesitate there.
  * Not raise any alarms or alerts.
  * Think about the Head of the Department, Quinn. How he looked like a bird of prey more than anyone Harry had ever met. He had once met a wizard whose animagus form was a hawk and he still had less hawk-like features than Quinn. Somehow, this seemed very important.
  * Think about the coldness in the eyes of Thompson and Treeroot when they overhead Harry speak of the voices coming from the Veil.
  * Think of Ron’s insistence that Harry should never ever again mention his ability to hear voices from the Veil. How Ron couldn’t explain why, just that he shouldn’t. (Ron often couldn’t tell you why or how he knew something, but he was sure to know how certain things worked.)
  * Think of the pink tickets the Department of Mysteries gave them for all the items they took and were never seen again.
  * Think about Gorlois and the case before that and the one before. Think about the Corridan case and how it had almost seemed like they didn’t want Harry to get involved. Think about how they had wanted him to vanish the dementors that had appeared on the Hebrides but refused to investigate why there was such a sudden upsurge.
  * Tell himself he still had to call someone.

Then Fred retched, trying to throw up although his stomach was empty, and Harry interrupted his own thoughts.

“This is still too dark,” moaned not-Fred. He had very light skin but that might not be natural because Fred was also unusually pale. His hair was black, as black as Harry’s although nowhere near as dishevelled. He looked, in fact, like Sirius Black.

  * Think that even in the best of cases, even if Harry was being weird and paranoid and over-dramatic, the Unspeakables would poke and prod and interrogate and say “just another minute” for hours. The Unspeakables would not let them go lie down somewhere quiet. They would not make them comfortable.

“Please, get me out of here,” the man that looked like Sirius begged. He had a nice voice and perfect enunciation and sounded absolutely desperate. _Please, get me out of here. _

That, Harry could do.

ooOoo

Harry thought that he had never seen Malfoy with such a pure expression on his face. He had seen him mad, scared, amused, he had seen him bored in class and joking with his friends. But there had always been something guarded and deliberate about him, as if he were wearing a mask. Even that night in the tower with Dumbledore and Snape, even then Malfoy had tried to control his expression.

Now he was perfectly open in his surprise, unmasked and naked, too stunned to think of showing any other expression. Harry could _see_ him thinking, finding pieces and putting them together in search of an explanation. It was nothing like when Harry had seen Goyle or Dudley trying to think. This was sharp and quick and penetrating.

“That’s Fred Weasley,” Malfoy said, pointing at Fred who was lying on the couch on the right.

Fred wiggled his fingers in greeting and smiled.

Malfoy turned to look at Harry as if Fred Weasley’s sudden return to life personally offended him. Fred Weasley was dead. Fred Weasley had been dead for, yes, for nine years now. Fred Weasley had no business being on Harry Potter’s couch dressed in a blue and white bathrobe.

Malfoy stared at Harry with his mouth hanging slightly open. Harry noticed just then that Malfoy was maybe a tiny bit taller than him after all, just a little bit. Never one to let himself stand looking ridiculous for long, however, Malfoy closed his mouth and turned to look at the man occupying the second couch, the one who was not Sirius Black. He was asleep, one arm hanging loose, the other thrown over his face.

Malfoy looked at Harry, at Fred, and then back at Harry. This time his expression was more focussed and still slightly irritated. He took a step back and for a second Harry feared that Malfoy would leave without another word. But it turned out he was just looking for the family tapestry that used to hang right there on the first floor and that Harry had moved to the stairs. Perhaps it was strange that Harry had decided to keep it, but it was a family, no matter how full of venom and hate, and Harry couldn’t bear the thought of it being destroyed.

(He had added the names and portraits of those who had been burned off, and even included some who never got there, like Tonks and Lupin and Teddy.)

Malfoy climbed the steps slowly, fully focussed on the tapestry before him. He had both of his hands open, as if he wanted to follow all of the branches at the same time, and he didn’t even blink as he walked past his own name.

Harry was used to generally disliking Malfoy even if he didn’t loathe him anymore; to ignoring his existence at the very least. He was not used to appreciating him, was the point, but he could see what Luna meant. Malfoy had the same expression of anger as Hermione, that choleric need to understand and learn something immediately because ignorance was not an option.

Malfoy stared at the tapestry intently and at last he nodded and smiled before slowly descending the stairs with a satisfied step. Knowledge had been acquired, ignorance had been conquered once again, all was well.

“That other man is Regulus Black,” he said. “Regulus of Orion and Druella Black.”

Harry could have told him that if only he had asked. Yes, that was Sirius’ younger brother, Regulus Arcturus Black. Well done, Malfoy, very smart. It had taken Kreacher fainting and then bawling his eyes out for Harry to figure it out.

(Regulus had called Harry “Potter” from the start, but he had been very surprised when he heard Fred call him Harry instead of James. And then Harry had told them the date and it had been one big mess of a conversation.)

Even if Malfoy had managed to control his surprise after the first shock, he was nevertheless so taken aback that he had kind of forgotten the unconventional way in which he had arrived to Grimmauld Place. It seemed to come back to him suddenly, as if he had been splashed with cold water. He shuddered and shrugged his shoulders and looked at Harry.

“And why am I here?”

“I told you. I need your help. As a consultant. Or advisor,” Harry added because maybe he hadn’t been clear enough, what with being repeatedly hit in the face at the time.

“A consultant.”

“This is a very strange matter, I realise that. I need your help to figure it out.”

What a day it was being for Draco Malfoy. Once more he failed to cover his surprise. He looked at Harry as if he couldn’t believe him. Not as if he couldn’t believe what Harry was saying, but as if he couldn’t believe that Harry Potter existed and was walking around the world saying such things. The look came easily to Malfoy’s eyes.

“Look, I explained everything in the letter,” Harry said, because it was a very good letter and it had taken him a while to compose it and he was pissed that it had gone unread and unappreciated. Malfoy could read it now, Harry would wait.

“The letter,” Malfoy said, still looking at Harry as if he had just announced his impending marriage to the Goblin King.

“I’m— ” Fred started to say. Maybe he was going to give a warning or maybe he was about to say that he was Gred or something equally funny and optimistic. He didn’t get to say anything because he was interrupted by a seizure that had his whole body convulsing, his back arching up off the couch, eyes rolled back into his head.

Just because Harry had seen it before it didn’t make it any less terrible. Harry thought it was the single most terrifying thing one could ever watch, and that was a lot to say considering he had seen a dementor’s face up close as well as Voldemort’s ugly mug. It looked as if Fred’s body was attempting to self-destruct. It looked like a demonic possession of the worst kind. Like that film Dudley wasn’t allowed to watch but did anyway and gave him nightmares for two months.

By now the arching phase had passed. Because Harry could now distinguish the phases, oh yes. After stiffening his whole body and almost levitating right out of where he was lying, Fred started to shake and jerk as if he had been hit with a hex. He had foam forming on his mouth.

The worst part was that there wasn’t much that Harry could do. Fred was lying on a couch, which was good, so all Harry could do was make sure that he didn’t roll out of it and fall on his face.

Harry held Fred gently (had to be gently or he would get bruises), hands on his torso and Harry’s right thigh making a barrier for Fred’s thrashing legs. It was around then that Harry was hit with the acrid smell of urine. He was used to that, too. The most intense seizures meant that your body let go completely.

He hadn’t heard Malfoy move. He just noticed that he was there, his hands hovering over Fred but without daring to touch him.

“Move his head carefully,” Harry instructed. “To the side.”

Malfoy went to the end of the sofa, grabbed a cushion, and carefully slipped it under Fred’s head while also turning the head to the side. Spit and foam slid down Fred’s chin and on to the faded cushion which had an embroidered pattern of leaves and birds.

It was remarkably similar to seeing someone under the cruciatus curse. Only in those cases the victim screamed whereas Fred was silent. The silence made it worse.

It lasted one minute and twenty-five seconds.

Harry would have said that it was ten very long minutes. Malfoy thought it had been close to an hour.

Eventually Fred stopped shaking. He huffed for breath two times before weakly grabbing the side of the sofa and awkwardly attempting to lift his head. He vomited on the floor rather than on himself which was a success. Since Malfoy was still by his head, he was the one pushing his hair back, one long narrow hand on Fred’s forehead.

It would take Fred fifteen minutes to fully get back his senses. Fifteen minutes in which he was confused and drowsy and weak. It reminded Harry of how Barty Crouch Jr had been after the dementor kiss, only Fred’s breath was more agitated and also he was going to get better, unlike Barty. It was during this time that Harry cleaned him up. He reasoned that it should be done as soon as possible and that Fred would rather not remember it.

Harry threw one of the freshly washed towels, now soiled, back to the dirty clothes basket.

“Why in the seven hells are they not in St Mungo’s, Potter?” Malfoy was slightly pale (hard to say in his case) and short of breath, but his voice was surprisingly even. He had his wand in his hand and he had just _evanescoed_ the vomit from the floor. There were some small stains on the cushion that Harry knew were harder to remove. Anything made of fabric was surprisingly difficult to clean even by magic. The embroidered napkins would never be the same.

“I can’t! I…” Harry had to stop and begin again. If only Malfoy weren’t so difficult Harry would have been able to explain everything in its proper order and Malfoy would understand Harry’s point. “You know, maybe you haven’t seen it, there is this stone arch in the Department of Mysteries.” Malfoy lifted both of his eyebrows slightly. He probably already knew what Harry meant, but he still made him say it. “They came out of it, from the arch I mean, in the department. And the Unspeakables there, they are really grabby and jealous. They will seize anything that falls under a category susceptible to examination, even if it is needed in an ongoing investigation.” There was a lot of resentment in the last few words.

“I see. And you thought that they would do the same with two adult wizards? File them for examination, put them in a jar in a shelf? Maybe with a tag on their foreheads or a little sign hanging from their necks.”

If you said it that way it sounded ridiculous. But Malfoy had not had to deal with them or with the rest of the humongous and unmerciful bureaucracy of the Ministry. Well, actually he had, during the trial that put him and his family on the stand. But he got away, like Malfoys always did, so of course he would think nothing of Ministry rules. Getting away was easy for him, the idea came naturally and effortlessly, like a divine right. He never had to consider the notion that he might not be strong enough or powerful enough to resist and confront the unstoppable force of the Ministry. He could afford to laugh.

Harry couldn’t. As ridiculous as Malfoy made it sound, Harry still thought that his reaction was reasonable. 

“Such lack of trust in our good Ministry,” Malfoy tsked, shaking his head. “And from an Auror, nonetheless.”

“Oh, like you think they are good,” Harry spit back. Because, really, Malfoy might not be afraid of the Ministry but he didn’t respect it. Harry was still sleep deprived and had a short temper so he missed the faint smile on Malfoy’s lips at his angry response. “Can you help?”

“Daffodils,” said Fred. He also put a foot down as if he were trying to stop the room from spinning.

“I mean…” Malfoy looked around, at Fred lying on the couch, at Regulus, the whole room. “Has this happened before?”

“It’s his fifth attack,” Harry said dryly. Not because he was angry with Malfoy he was annoyed but not angry, not really. It was just better to keep it dry. Otherwise it was impossible to talk about, about how sick they were, about the seizures and the coughing and the vomiting, about how they could barely hold any food down and how they kept bleeding spontaneously.

About how they still looked very close to death.

“Such a drama boy,” Regulus said from the other sofa lifting himself into more of a sitting position and blinking sleep away. “I have only seized three times.”

“You broke a rib after the first one,” Harry said, because Regulus Black took the name _grand mal_ and made a spectacle with it, with fireworks and dancers.

“_You_ broke my rib. Rib was fine before the seizure.”

Maybe that was true, but Harry didn’t regret it because at the time it had looked as if Regulus was going to crack his skull open against the floor and someone had to keep him still. He told Malfoy so, just so he wouldn’t think that Harry’s bedside manner was that dreadful.

“Dear me,” was all Malfoy said.

ooOoo

Harry had always liked the library in Grimmauld Place. It was the warmest room in the house while also having the highest ceiling. Harry found that he liked a room with lots of air.

He and Malfoy had retired there because—after informing them that there was a stain in the ceiling that looked like a rhinoceros fighting an octopus—Fred had slowly fallen asleep. Just like with a newborn, Harry was not disturbing what little sleep his guests got.

Kreacher had served them tea and biscuits and then he had gone to the living room to keep Regulus company. Regulus liked reading and doing crosswords, so at least he was easy to entertain. The only problem was that his almost constant headaches limited the time he could spend looking at the page.

“The Ministry I kind of understand,” Malfoy said to Harry’s faint surprise. Harry kept second-guessing his instinctive decision of getting Regulus and Fred out without telling anyone. This wasn’t Fudge’s Ministry. They were supposed to be better now. “But why did you not tell the Weasley horde?”

Ah.

Harry dropped two cubes of sugar in his cup. He stirred the tea and licked the spoon, realised this was the second time he put sugar in his tea, and left the spoon gently on the saucer. He did not look at Malfoy for a while. This actually was the one thing he was _sure_ about, but it wasn’t any easier to explain.

“Do you know that tale with the three brothers?”

“The Tale of the Three Brothers by Beedle the Bard,” Malfoy said quickly. “Yes, I know it.”

“And how one of the Death’s gifts was a stone? The resurrection stone?” Harry felt a sudden pain in his stomach, as if he had a very big stone in his belly. “It allowed you to see your lost ones.”

“I know the story, Potter.”

Harry realised he was still staring at his tea cup. He should look at Malfoy at some point, it was required in conversations.

He lifted his eyes.

“People always say that they would give anything to spend five more minutes with their loved ones. Just five minutes to hug them and say goodbye. But it doesn’t work that way. Five more minutes and then they go. You have to see them leave again, and it hurts just as much as the first time. It kills you from the inside.”

Harry was one of the very few people who could actually give an informed opinion on the matter. He had almost let himself be kissed by dementors just because he wanted to hear his mother’s voice. He had seen the ghosts of his parents and he almost didn’t run from Voldemort that fateful night in the graveyard. He had held the resurrection stone itself in his hands and he had understood how it would bring death more than life. The price of resurrecting someone was your own life.

“You have seen it. You have seen how they are,” he said, pleading for Malfoy to understand. “Regulus has headaches that send him to the floor in tears. Fred keeps vomiting and can barely keep anything down. They both get fevers at night, plus the seizures… I just…”

He had to look away, to the tall shelves full of books that he found so reassuring. Malfoy was blessedly quiet.

“I can’t give them their brother back just to see him die in pain.”

“Aha. Well. This was certainly an interesting reunion,” Malfoy said, pushing his chair away from the table. “Let’s do it again in ten years. Good luck with your thing.”

Harry scrambled back after Malfoy. His throat was heavy and his eyes were a little wet from the emotion of explaining how utterly devastating seeing a dead beloved could be; and that bastard was now leaving. He was leaving as if it were nothing.

“But, but I— ”

“You need help, yes. That is evidently clear. So ask some of your friends to help you. It is enough that I won’t say a word about it to the Ministry or anyone else.”

“Not everyone can help me. You have seen it, this, this will take a good mind.”

Malfoy tried to hide it, oh he tried, but by then Harry had seen a dozen undisguised expressions in Malfoy’s face. He knew that Malfoy was pleased at the implication that not everyone had his clever mind.

“Then I wish you good luck,” Malfoy said sweetly and with the same elegance of their school years. He turned around and began to walk out of the library and towards the door.

“Oh, is this how you are going to be?” Harry was slightly horrified to hear his voice wavering and cracking, his words came in a shrill tone, like Aunt Petunia. “Don’t help me, fine, you hate me. But help them!”

“I don’t hate you.” Malfoy was stupidly calm. How could he speak so calmly? So devoid of emotion, that stonehearted bastard. He was a fucking block of ice. “I just can’t help you. Potter, have you stopped to think for a second that I might have other things to do? Matters to attend to?”

The thing about Harry was that lately he was all about facing things clearly and not lying to himself, so it wasn’t hard to answer the question.

“No,” he said.

Malfoy had reached the corridor and stood there, between the darkness of the foyer and the warm yellow light of the library. “No, I did not think about that.”

Harry could see Malfoy rising an invisible hand to his face, but he didn’t know if he was removing a mask or putting it back on. He only knew that his expression shifted.

“Well, I do. Have things to do.”

“Of course. But, maybe, you know, later.”

For Merlin’s sake, Harry Potter, shut up. Why was he like this? He was usually witty and snarky and knew exactly what to say to the scared new recruits who had frozen up and dropped their wands when a banshee jumped at them. It was probably the hunger and the sleep deprivation and the fact that he was quite scared himself of not being able to help Regulus and Fred.

“I have to work,” answered Malfoy and he said it in a tone as if it were an insult. It wasn’t clear if it was an insult towards Harry or himself. “You know, due to having my family’s centuries-old fortune and assets seized by the Wizengamot.”

What a mess that trial had been. Still, Harry thought that the Malfoys should consider themselves lucky since not even Lucius had had to go to Azkaban. Many people thought that they had gotten away with little punishment. Families like the remaining Lestranges and the Carrows and the Mulcibers had fared much worse.

Harry hadn’t followed much of the rest of the case. He knew there had been a second investigation, one that didn’t come from the Aurors, about possible hidden assets that had gone undeclared. There was probably some truth to that because right after the investigation began Lucius and Narcissa had packed up their things and left to go live somewhere on the Continent. Harry supposed that Malfoy would have to hold some kind of job, if only for appearance’s sake.

How their lives had inverted, hadn’t they? Harry had been the poor orphan boy for years while Malfoy strutted around the school like a silver and diamond prince. And now, look at it, now Harry had a problem that could be fixed with money _and_ he had the money too!

“I can pay,” he said with a gesture of his open hand and perhaps a tad too much enthusiasm. But really, how could he not be pleased that something had an easy solution for once? Usually it took sweat and tears and hours of research and hard work and even then some things couldn’t be fixed. Knowing that it could be as easy as paying money was exhilarating.

Malfoy let out a short ugly laugh. “No, you can’t. I’m not selling.”

“I meant— ”

“I know what you meant, Potter. I was better than you at being rich.”

Surely that wasn’t true. Malfoy had been a cruel selfish bastard while Harry just wanted to get help for the two non-dead guys camping in his living room and he was willing to pay for the inconvenience of helping him.

“I don’t know what you think I meant, Malfoy. I’m just saying that of course I can and will compensate you. You can name the price.”

Malfoy’s smile was like a silver knife. It was beautiful and narrow and terrible.

“How easily the heroes of the war become entitled tyrants,” he said, which was awfully poetic and pedantic and proved that they hadn’t changed that much, really. “I would be careful, Potter. Soon you will have grown fat too.”

Harry instinctively looked down at his belly because he worried that without the Auror training regime he would get out of shape. He had been planning on doing some exercise that of course he hadn’t gotten around to doing, unless stressing and mopping blood counted as exercise. Then again, he hadn’t eaten much these last few days, either.

“I have a _commitment_, Potter. I’m not just dropping everything for you, no matter how much money you throw at me. I have other things to do.”

Harry wondered how had he let it get to that point. Malfoy had turned around once more and was walking toward the patch of darkness that was the main door.

“Some people have silver tongues,” said a voice that was itself like silver. “Some have flesh tongues, and then there is my dear Potter over there with his disaster tongue. It might be a curse.”

Regulus had managed to crawl off of the couch and was leaning against the door jamb of the living room.

It was funny how much he looked like Sirius while also being a completely different person. His eyes were brown instead of the amazing gem blue of Sirius’ eyes, and he was shorter and thinner. He had the nose and cheekbones of the Blacks, but somehow the arrangement of his face wasn’t as handsome as Sirius’. Of course few people could be as handsome as Sirius and none could be more handsome than him.

There was something about Regulus, though, something about the way he spoke and moved and looked at the world that was much more than Sirius. Much more _what_ Harry couldn’t say, but it was more. Just as Regulus had a pale imitation of his brother’s beauty, it seemed that Sirius had been a cheap imitation of something of Regulus’ character.

“Can I have a hanky? I’m bleeding again,” Regulus said with aristocratic nonchalance. Harry immediately crossed the distance, standing awkwardly close to Malfoy, and handed him a handkerchief. Regulus took it and dabbed at his nose and ear gently. It wasn’t that much blood. The first morning in the house Regulus had bled so much that Harry had thought he was going to die right then and there.

Now that he thought about it, Regulus could have asked Kreacher to pass him a handkerchief.

“Thanks, dear. Will you give us a hand, please?” Regulus appeared to be talking to the handkerchief. “For us. He is in over his head.” He flickered his eyes briefly at Malfoy and then at Harry, extending his hand to give back the handkerchief almost like a medieval lady giving a token in a tournament Harry waved at him to keep it.

Malfoy was looking at Regulus with odd concentration, as if he were learning him. The light of the corridor was too poor to even guess what kind of expression might be on his face.

Then Malfoy sighed, looked at the watch on his left wrist, and turned on his heels striding back to the library. Harry followed him in silence, afraid to run his stupid mouth and ruin it again.

“I really have to go,” Malfoy said as he entered the library. He walked down its length quickly, eyes on the tall shelves and hands slightly up and open mirroring his stance when he had studied the family tapestry.

“I have been looking for any precedents,” Harry said and then flinched. Maybe Regulus was right and he had been cursed to speak too much. “And also any treatments, things to help with the symptoms, legal standing of resurrected people…”

“So you are trying to do everything at once with no system.” Malfoy had finished one wall and was examining the other. He couldn’t possibly be reading the titles of the books, not at that speed. There were too many. The shelves took up all but a small fringe at the top of the wall that seemed to be intended to gather dust and hold some fragile-looking glass and brass artefacts. Besides, many of the books were worn and the spines were a dull brown-grey, or the lettering had faded, or they never had a title on the spine.

Malfoy returned to the beginning of the second wall, his hand caressing the wood shelf and the ornamentation between the units, small demons holding bunches of grapes and the occasional long-beaked bird.

He didn’t explain what he was doing but Harry wasn’t as useless as present opinion believed, so he still saw Malfoy press the belly of one of the carved demons.

“_Ars Moriendi_,” he said. Two books came out of the shelf, as if pushed by an inner secret spring. Malfoy walked briskly to the closest one.

“You have to go to the basics,” he said, grabbing the book and opening it in a page at random. Not a good page, apparently, because he closed the book and pushed it back to its place.

The other book was the good one, and so was the one that stood three places to its right. At a glance, this second book focussed on curses which wasn’t Harry’s favourite topic, but he was good at it nevertheless.

(Casting Theory, in case you are wondering. That was Harry’s favourite topic. Not even Duelling, although of course duelling was part of it. What to cast, how to cast, verbally or non-verbally, aiming, ricocheting, adjusting to weather and other environmental conditions. Air humidity could affect a spell’s potency and aim and frankly given their country’s weather it was unbelievable that it had never come up once at Hogwarts. Sun glare could also affect a spell, especially the streamlined ones. Long spells were more likely to be mispronounced so they couldn’t be used in a duel when you would soon find yourself panting.

It was a suitably strange topic. Nothing that interested the academics but also intellectual enough that it seemed boring and pacific compared to the more combat-oriented subjects.)

Malfoy left right after handing Harry the books with a curt goodbye and nothing else. Regulus hobbled back to the couch, exhausted from his little excursion and Harry went with him back to the living room to sit with them and read.

ooOoo

No one had ever accused Harry of being a dedicated and diligent student, but that probably had more to do with his friendship with Hermione than any real slacking on his part. Other than during the Triwizard Tournament, which he hadn’t even entered to begin with, Harry had always put in a decent amount of work.

By dinner time he was twenty pages away from finishing _Ars Moriendi: De bello aeterna. _He knew there had been lunch in between, and tea, but he was nevertheless feeling dazed and light-headed. He was surprised to see the curtains closed and two soft lamps turned on.

There had been no more seizures that day and the evening fever seemed to be under control. Regulus got a migraine that had him in tears, begging to be killed to make it stop, but heartbreaking as it was, Harry knew that it would pass after nineteen minutes exactly.

Ah, yes, he had drawn the curtains then. The light made Regulus’ headache worse. Soon after Fred had asked Harry to help him stand and then he had slowly and bravely crossed the short distance in the sitting area so he could flop down next to Regulus. It was very odd seeing them together, and not just because Fred had been a toddler when Regulus died. It was odd because seeing the Weasley red in the gloomy living room of the House of Black was odd, because Fred was strong and stocky and Regulus was all knees and elbows, because they spoke differently and moved differently and one was a Gryffindor and the other a Slytherin.

Fred bent down like a very old man. Harry would have jumped to help but he instinctually suspected that he shouldn’t. He had seen them at their worst and kept seeing them in a terrible state multiple times a day. He had seen them bleed and vomit and soil themselves. He had seen them naked. He had cleaned them and helped them dress and undress and generally been around during a vulnerable and embarrassing time. As easy as it would be for Harry to get up and pick up the paper from the floor, he was letting Fred do it.

He knew he was right when he saw Fred’s small smile of satisfaction as he leaned back against the backrest with _The Prophet_ in his hands.

“All right then,” Fred said, and even though Regulus was holding a cushion over his face and Harry was sitting cross-legged on an armchair a few steps away, he still mimicked taking a pair of glasses and putting them on the tip of his nose. A joke for a joke’s sake, regardless of the inattention of the audience. “Let’s see what this is about. Seven Down, The Most Indecorous Giant.”

“Cerne Abbas,” Regulus said without taking the cushion off his face.

Fred fished a pencil out from somewhere in the couch and carefully wrote the answer. He smudged the letters a little bit because he hadn’t known about the double B. Harry left them to it and went back to reading the _Ars Moriendi. _

The book wasn’t particularly useful. There was nothing related to the situation at hand, nothing that could alleviate their suffering. Harry was still glad he had read it and had to admit that Malfoy had made a good choice. It didn’t give Harry a solution but he got something like a frame in which to put his ideas. Perhaps he had approached the matter naïvely because he was far from being the first person interested in Death as a topic and particularly in avoiding it. He _might_ be the first case in which the avoidance itself had already been achieved though, which was pretty nifty because if Harry had gotten something out of the book, it was that the more one ran from death the closer one got to it (or her, or him; the book was oddly hesitant about Death’s gender).

Harry thought he had seen some curses with a similar principle. You ran towards a door but the more you ran the farther the door got and in order to actually reach it you had to turn around and walk backwards without looking at it. Harry didn’t know about Regulus, but Fred was exactly the sort of person to fall backwards through a door leading back to life.

There was a lot about balance too. Too ambiguous and convoluted for Harry to get any clear idea of what they were trying to say, but enough that he made a note to find more information about the topic.

ooOoo

Regulus and Fred had fallen asleep leaning against each other with the completed crossword lying across their knees. They had had together a slice of spicy bread and a sniff at a lemon.

Harry had written to Luna not to come tonight. She deserved a good night of sleep after the scare of the last one and Harry felt rested enough to stay up. He was tired, very tired yes, but he had so many thoughts bouncing in his head that he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anytime soon. He didn’t want to in any case, even if his eyes were burning. He was only now starting to feel like he had something resembling an idea when he had spent the last three-and-a-half days reacting in a panic with little idea of what to do.

Luna called him through the fireplace some time before ten, to tell him that she was keeping Aeneas with her for the night. The old owl had already flown enough for a day.

“You know, the thestrals kept sniffing my clothes this morning,” said Luna, her blonde hair mixing with the flames. “They do that sometimes, but today was different, as if they were more interested. How about you?”

Harry realised that he was bone tired and he had a small headache sitting between his eyes. But he was feeling much better than yesterday or the day before when he went to ask Luna for help.

“I’m still worried about their eating,” he said. “If they keep going like this, I won’t have to worry about anything else, they will starve to death.”

Luna was nodding in understanding, but any gesture or facial expression was distorted by the flames to become something between nightmarish and terrifying. It was only pure habit that people didn’t find floo calls frightening. It was even worse because Lupin’s old cottage was far away in the country, so the floo connection echoed and sometimes had interruptions when there was heavy rain. Luna said that she always apparated, when she could, because she had to use three times as much floo powder as usual to get anywhere and twice she had arrived at the Diggorys’ rather than her father’s house.

“Silverglass birds are very finicky,” said Luna, the fire monster. “I will look at what they eat and bring something tomorrow. By the way, did you get the peppermint potion?”

Harry had forgotten all about it. The ingredients must be somewhere in the foyer where he had dropped them when he brought Malfoy to the house. If Regulus and Fred kept sleeping undisturbed he might try brewing it tonight so there would be a batch ready for tomorrow.

It seemed so long ago! Finding Malfoy, dragging him home, being repeatedly hit while Harry tried to explain the situation and ask for help. Now that Harry thought about it, with a few hours distance and the yellow and green light of the floo-infused fireplace as a filter, Malfoy had actually been pretty helpful.

Harry might still find half a dozen Aurors and Unspeakables banging at his door tomorrow morning, if Malfoy decided that he should send them a little note. It would certainly benefit Malfoy, playing the good law-abiding citizen.

“He is quite strange, isn’t he?” said Luna after Harry finished telling her everything about Malfoy’s reluctant help. It was… well, it was pretty rich coming from her. Make no mistake, Harry loved Luna and thought she was fantastic, but she was one odd gal and to hear her say that someone was strange… Wow.

Harry didn’t know how to answer. Malfoy was a bastard with sudden bouts of decency and a privileged mind. He didn’t know how strange that was. Harry’s definition of strange had never been that good to begin with and it had only deteriorated once he met the wizarding world. Mostly he relied on Ron or Ginny to tell him someone was strange.

“I really don’t think he will talk to the Ministry,” added Luna, like one might say that the tomatoes wouldn’t ripen until next week. “The Malfoys never liked the Ministry much, you know. Used it, yes, but not liked it, and after the expropriation…” She shook her head. Even if it benefited Malfoy he wouldn’t do anything that helped the Ministry. “He might try some blackmail, I don’t know. He acts very different when there aren’t people around, don’t you think?”

Oh, well. That changed everything. Blackmail was just another form of negotiation and Harry might convince Malfoy to help some more in exchange for whatever he wanted. Harry had acquired some good experience in ruthless, brutal, pitiless negotiation while working in the Ministry: fighting the Department of Mysteries over appropriation; fighting the Auror Office over their priorities (a quick arrest against a longer and more fruitful investigation); and the biggest ministerial fight of all, fighting against whatever insane and petty demand the Department of Health and Safety had. Health and Safety had once submitted a complaint against the Auror Office for excessive bleeding on the premises. According to them, blood in the lifts was bad for the general working atmosphere. They didn’t even complain about the risk of spreading a disease or someone slipping and falling (admittedly, it had been a lot of blood). They complained about it being _shocking_ for other workers. It upset them.

If Harry had managed not to hex each and every one of them, he could negotiate Malfoy’s price if he had any. 

Whatever Luna was seeing on her side of the fireplace, it prompted her to keep talking.

“One time I saw him put a curse on that friend of his.”

“Who? Goyle?” Harry wouldn’t put it past Malfoy to practice curses on Crabbe and Goyle. Certainly if you had met Goyle you might be inclined to think that he had been _stupefied_ repeatedly.

“No, the friend,” said Luna. “Brown hair and freckles. Had a long name and then a short one. Oh, I know! Theodore Nott, of course!”

Luna’s smile was impish with the light and shadows of the fire.

“Why would he ever curse Nott?” asked Harry. “I thought he was one of the few Slytherins he liked.”

“Yes. I don’t think Nott realised it was him. He was with some second year Slytherins.” Luna made a minute pause, something very small and insignificant but Harry recognised it. It was the same kind of pause he did when he needed to tighten his heart and his chest so he could speak about something hard and difficult. The pause he did before lightheartedly explaining that he spent the first eleven years of his life living in the closet under the stairs. Not that he spoke much about it. That was the pause Luna made, before going on.

“They were saying something about my Mum,” Luna explained. “That she was dead and— I don’t know. Silly things.”

Silly things that Harry had heard plenty of times. _Your mother is dead_ was silly and stupid and almost vulgar in how obvious it was. It wasn’t an insult, it was just a statement of something horrible. But it hurt quite a lot despite the lack of wit or burn. It cut.

“He came from the Arithmancy corridor, stopped to curse Nott, and kept walking. He didn’t say a word,” Luna finished in a tone that still held some surprise at Malfoy’s behaviour. Harry suspected that whatever it was that she found surprising it was not the obvious thing, like the fact that Malfoy had coldly cursed one of his friends. She probably thought that he should have waved or worn a funny hat.

“He also gave me a decorated box full of sweets and a notebook, but I think his Mum had bought them.”

Harry had to grab the side of the fireplace to ground himself. He started to mentally check for signs of illusion or hypnotism. What world was this in which Luna spoke with the utmost naturalness of Malfoy giving her gifts? Sure, Harry had been pretty distracted at Hogwarts, too busy with his own murder drama to pay attention to others. Five teachers had tried to kill him, only one accidentally, _of course_ he had missed some things. He still liked to think that he had known what bloody Draco Malfoy had been up to and he would have noticed if he suddenly started to romance Luna.

At the very least because Ginny would have said something.

“When was this?” he squeaked.

“Oh, back when my mother died. Neither of us was at Hogwarts yet.”

“But why would— ?” and then Harry shut his mouth because of course, _of course_. This wasn’t even the first time he encountered something like this, and it made the war and the house rivalry and the pride over blood purity all the more ridiculous. Thank Merlin that they didn’t do like the Spanish and have multiple surnames because then everyone would be able to see what an awful inbred lot they were.

Luna’s mum, Pandora Lovegood, was actually Pandora Atalanta Malfoy, Lucius’ first cousin. So of course Lucius and his family had attended her funeral, this being the occasion when Malfoy (Draco) gave Luna a gift of a pink unicorn notebook and chocolates for her grief. And of course, when Voldemort’s government decided that _The Quibbler_’s pro-Harry editorial line couldn’t continue, Luna hadn’t been tortured by the Carrows or taken by Travers (Harry had read what Travers did and he shuddered at the thought of Luna being in his hands). She had been kidnapped and imprisoned in Malfoy’s Manor because, in a way, she belonged to them. She was a Malfoy by blood if not by name.

Malfoy (Draco) hadn’t paid her much attention. He had brought her a few books from time to time, but one day he made her hand them all back and he didn’t give her any more. Narcissa had given her a change of clothes and then forgotten about her.

Luna was right: Malfoy was strange and acted even stranger when there wasn’t anyone around. Harry hoped that she was also right about the rest, about Malfoy keeping quiet with the Ministry and maybe helping.

ooOoo

That night Harry brewed the peppermint potion (supposed to help with nausea and headaches) in the kitchen while everyone slept. Even Kreacher had given in and gone to sleep, burrowed under Regulus’ sofa and breathing shallowly. (Harry was kind of worried about the house elf’s health, but he didn’t have much energy or attention to spare.) In all honesty Harry doubted that the potion would do any good because the blood-strengthening potion was supposed to be more potent and yet both Regulus and Fred were still looking pale and weak and kept bleeding spontaneously. The chamomile tea did nothing. The water of liquorice did not lower the fever but it might have stopped it from getting higher. In fact, the only thing that had worked so far was Luna’s weird spicy bread that still made them vomit, but not as much as all the other foods they had tried, so it had to be nourishing them a little bit.

Down in the kitchen it was lonely and quiet despite the guests sleeping upstairs. Harry didn’t mind, though. He had been living alone for years and people hardly ever visited him at Grimmauld Place. Not that he didn’t see people, it was just that they tended to meet somewhere else. There hadn’t been this many people in the house since right after the war, when he and Ron lived together and there was always someone in a guest room because there was a lot to rebuild. Ginny had never moved in, even unofficially. She came and spent the night, sure, but when they decided to end it she hadn’t had to come pick up her things. There had only been a toothbrush and she told Harry to throw it away. So no, there were never many people living in Grimmauld Place.

Now he had _two_ guests and still there was a feeling of solitude, as if Harry, alone at night in his kitchen, were the only person in the whole universe.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling.

The night passed in peace. Harry slept in his room on the second floor, but he left the door open so he would wake up before Kreacher had to come get him if something happened. He heard nothing. He slept eight full hours and woke up feeling like a different man, one who didn’t have sand in his eyes and absolute desolation in his heart from exhaustion. Regulus said that he had woken up twice but otherwise managed to sleep well. Fred mentioned having a nightmare and a sudden pain in his chest but he considered himself pretty rested even if he had been the first to wake up, before sunrise even, which Fred thought was completely unnecessary and more worrisome than the chest pain.

They even got Kreacher to eat something and take a bath. Harry couldn’t say if the house elf was going to drop from the emotion or if seeing his beloved master again had given him energy to last another twenty years. In any case he was showing a dedication that was excessive even for a house elf and Harry wanted to make sure that he didn’t overdo it. He also told him to forget about the top two floors of the house and not bother cleaning them.

It was an excellent decision. Very Auror-like, too. If you had down time, you ate and you rested. Of course since he had ordered Kreacher to take his time, it was just Harry, fasting and in his pyjamas when Regulus seized again and Fred began vomiting blood and coughed so much that he could barely breathe. Regulus shook and shook and even shat himself which shouldn’t even be possible given how little he had eaten. Then it was Fred’s turn. He fell to the floor with his mouth full of bloody foam and Harry though he was going to choke. Meanwhile Regulus had his eyes rolled back and didn’t seem to be coming back from the seizure. He stayed frozen and petrified, with his hands twisted like claws.

Sometimes five minutes can be an hour long.

The room reeked. They reeked. Harry reeked. He kept using cleaning spells but the room was imbued with the smell of sickness and death, Regulus was petrified and Fred was spitting blood and Harry wanted to die a little bit. He wanted back that feeling of last night when he was the only person in the world and everything was calm. While he was helping Fred sit up, propping him against the sofa with some cushions because Fred wasn’t strong enough to stand up and _sit_ on the sofa properly, Harry’s eyes went to the painting of the figure sitting among the ruins. It was the only undisturbed thing in the room (the rest of the paintings were vacant, their occupants having fled upstairs to a less scandalous view). The sight of it gave Harry some comfort. He didn’t want to die anymore.

It took Harry a few seconds to realise that the hollow bell sound, like a lament for someone long lost, was the doorbell ringing. Sometimes the house was ridiculous in its dedication to keeping a theme.

Kreacher was there while also trying not to be because it was against his orders. Harry waved at him to keep an eye on Regulus and Fred while he went to open the door. Regulus had only just begun to move, barely. Meaning that his eyes weren’t rolled back and he seemed conscious and reasonably alert but he hadn’t even attempted to sit up. Fred was rinsing his mouth, holding the glass of water with both hands.

It wasn’t Malfoy at the door. Of course it wasn’t Malfoy. Malfoy had made it very clear that he had no intention of getting involved in the matter and it was absurd to expect him to change his mind so quickly and radically. Harry hadn’t expected it and he wasn’t disappointed. He had had no expectations whatsoever when he opened the door.

“What!” he snapped at the wizard standing on his doorstep. One of those men of truly indeterminate age. Could be twenty-eight as well as he could be forty-three. It was the way he wore his hair, like a doll.

“Uh, Mister Potter, sir,” said the man, taking a small step back. The chilly winter wind reminded Harry that he was only wearing pyjamas. He thought it might be the pair with fat orange dragons Ron had given him as a joke. He wasn’t looking down at himself to check.

He stared down at the man. Grey robes with a blue and gold fringe, so Magical Law Enforcement Administrative Services. This could be nothing or it could be a terrible thing and proof that Malfoy was a traitorous callous bastard after all.

Although you would think that they would have sent more people to arrest Harry if Malfoy had spoken with them.

“Um, we need your, um, signature sir, for the, um, release of the notes on the Hebrides case for the Auror Academy.”

Harry’s heart was beating fast and he felt a bit flushed despite the cold air on his face. This was such an inane reason to drop by that it might very well be a trap. Fortunately, he had his wand tucked into the waistband of his trousers and despite anything Moody might have said about it, he was infinitely grateful. Bad things happened when you opened your door without a wand.

“Of course,” Harry said, and extended a hand for the forms. The wizard handed them over while visibly swallowing.

“Is, um, is everything all right, sir? You have… blood.”

Harry knew he had gotten some stuff on his clothes, but he hadn’t really cared about it. He wasn’t even going to wash them, he would have Kreacher burn everything and go buy some new towels and bathrobes and pyjamas for everybody. Now that he looked down at himself, with the white light of the morning, he realised that the blood stains on his chest and arms and knees could be alarming. The cuffs of his trousers were three or four different colours and sticking uncomfortably to his legs, but no one ever paid attention to cuffs. Harry was the only person who did. He had many opinions about them, both wrist and ankle cuffs.

“I am in the middle of a long-due breakdown involving copious amounts of alcohol, mind-state altering potions and sex,” he said with all the seriousness such a statement deserved. Then he signed the form and handed it back with a neutral yet polite expression. “Please, send all further communications by owl.”

“Yes, sir,” the wizard said quickly, already descending the stairs. He took five or six quick steps down the sidewalk and then yelped when he looked over his shoulder and saw that Harry was still standing on his doorstep watching him go with the attitude of a leopard who is deciding whether or not that rabbit is worth it. The wizard disapparated right after.

When Harry got back inside, he thought that now Regulus was the one having a coughing attack and on the verge of asphyxiation, but it turned out that he was just wheezing with laughter.

ooOoo

They had breakfast first, or rather, Harry had breakfast while Regulus and Fred sipped the peppermint potion and looked queasy at the eggs and baked beans. Fred made a half-hearted attempt at poking his slice of ham, but he dropped it and turned away. Meanwhile Harry ate everything, devouring the food like Ron during one of his growth spurts, still wearing the blood-stained pyjamas (sadly, they were the ones with fat orange dragons. Harry liked those ones).

Harry felt that breakfast had been a small reprieve, like ceasefire. As soon as he pushed his plate away Regulus announced that he wanted to take a bath and that life wasn’t worth living at all if he didn’t get his wish immediately and he might as well die that very instant. Harry said that people whose right side of their body was still mildly paralysed couldn’t be beggars, which didn’t make much sense but he was having a difficult morning.

It was made even more difficult because both Regulus _and_ Fred insisted that they wanted to wash, now, with water and soap and something that smelled good and had a colourful name. Harry had to remind them that the reason they hadn’t gone to one of the big bathrooms upstairs or taken residence in any of the multiple and spacious bedrooms, the reason why they were confined to the sofas in the living room and using the tiny loo under the stairs, was that they couldn’t be trusted to stand up for longer than a minute. Harry had the bruise on his leg to prove it, when he had crashed against a small table in his haste to grab Regulus before he hit the floor. Fred had had a _petit mal_ in the loo and it was thanks to his broad shoulders and how narrow the place was that he didn’t fall face first in the tiny sink and cracked his skull and/or drown himself.

Harry was happy to let them move freely and test their limits, just not on the stairs or the bathtub.

Regulus was a horrible person. Regulus said, “Kreacher, Kreacher, help me climb upstairs,” holding Harry’s gaze while he said so and knowing perfectly well that the poor old house elf wasn’t strong enough to help anyone climb anything, even if said anyone was short and skinny and made of attitude and black hair.

So Harry had to help them up and it was very much like that old riddle about the man trying to cross a river with a fox and a chicken and a bag of corn. He went up with Regulus while Kreacher stayed down with Fred and then he called Kreacher up and he descended the stairs four at a time to get to Fred. (Even in perfect health Fred shouldn’t be left alone without supervision, he had just started a dispute with an ugly picture of a shepherdess.)

People who were only now starting to slowly regain some mobility in their right side couldn’t be left alone in the bathroom lest they fall down and drown. People who were also Weasleys just had to resign themselves to living life under supervision and also quit flashing the portraits of old people. This meant that Harry had to stay with them and help them wash. Some other time it might have been awkward and embarrassing for everyone, but it was surprisingly easy.

He peeled the dirty clothes off them with the casual tenderness of a parent helping their child. Then he got them in the bathtub, Regulus first and Fred second. Wizards were used to taking baths over showers, at least pureblooded ones were, but a bath was asking to have an accident and even if Harry could vanish all the water with a quick flick of his wand he just felt better if they sat in the bathtub and let the stream fall over them. That’s what he said to Regulus when he helped him in, handing him a sponge. He was trusted with a sponge.

There was a big mirror in a golden frame, its surface beginning to mist with the steam of the shower. Fred was standing in front of it, looking at his reflection with a lost expression. The bathroom was white tile with black decorations and the soft blur of the steam. Fred was the only note of colour in the room, maybe the universe. The only discordant element and even he seemed to be vanishing away, blurred and swallowed by the enveloping steam. His hair, more orange than red, was like a smudged watercolour.

Fred wouldn’t see much detail in his fogged reflection. He couldn’t see how clammy and pale his skin was, how even his freckles had faded, how his cheeks were slightly sunken. He might be able to see the shadows under his eyes, the dried blood and spit on his chin and the corner of his mouth that made a trail down to his chest.

Harry stepped to his side, touching his elbow gently to take him over to the tub. Fred gave a small jolt as if Harry’s touch had brought him back from somewhere very far away, and looked at him with eyes that were even more dead than the rest of him.

“You won’t… Harry, you won’t tell them, will you?”

“Fred.”

“Harry, no. My mother, George. You won’t— It was fast! I died fast and laughing, I’m pretty sure that I died laughing. They didn’t have to see— ” Fred made a vague gesture that encompassed all of him, the blood and piss and old sweat dried to his skin but also the invisible things, the inability to hold any food down, the seizures that left him trembling and exhausted.

Harry made his promise immediately. He even added that he would keep it even at the cost of Ron’s friendship. He was pretty sure about Ron’s friendship even though they were currently fighting, so he felt safe risking it; and he knew how utterly devastating it would be for George to know that his twin had died slowly and in pain. Luna might have said something to that effect, too.

There had been an extremely tiring and emotionally draining conversation on Friday when Harry brought them home and attempted to fill them in on the last nine and twenty-six years. Fred had wanted to know about his family, of course, and Harry told him everything he could while also trying to tell him as diplomatically as possible that it might be a bad idea to contact them right away. The conversation had been interrupted twice, once by Regulus and one of his headaches and the other by Fred himself with his first seizure. He had seen Harry’s point better then.

And now he was begging Harry not to say a word.

“You tell them yourself,” Harry said, while he helped him get in the tub.

Regulus was sitting down under the stream that Harry had charmed to fall equally over the bathtub, like a warm rain. He was holding the sponge over the wrist of his left arm and he was staring, sad and unmoving, at the faint pink mark on his forearm. The snake and the skull.

He kept looking at it for a long time, while Harry helped Fred get settled and got the best smelling soap and shampoo in the house.

“I thought that it wouldn’t be there anymore,” he whispered, soft as the water droplets falling in the tub.

Harry let out a breath. The warm steam felt good on his skin, soft and enveloping and comforting. The soap smelled like lavender which wasn’t his favourite perfume, but was pretty good nevertheless. The shampoo had a citrus scent because all shampoos for curly, tangled, messy, might-fight-back hair have a citrus scent.

“It is not bad,” Harry said, not as quiet as the water droplets water of Regulus’ voice but not much louder than that. He spoke like a dry towel feels, one that is a bit old and softer for it.

He went on, pointing at the morsmordre, “You know that he is not coming back.” The top of Harry’s pyjamas was soaked in water, but he didn’t register it. “You will always know, right there on your arm. He is not coming back and you helped with that.”

Then he helped him stand up and directed the water to clean him more thoroughly.

“Did you feel him?” asked Regulus as he sat back down and Harry repeated the process with Fred. “In your forehead?”

Harry nodded. “I could even see and hear what he was doing, at times. Grab my arm, Fred. He used it against me.”

Sirius died for that.

People didn’t like talking about their scars, but Harry suspected that it was for different reasons. Because scars reminded them that they were blemished and fragile, that they were not the exquisite creatures you see in a museum. Harry’s scars (and Regulus’) were all about death and the worst of human nature.

“I have a second one,” he said. He wasn’t sure why, other than he liked the second one better. For starters people didn’t know it was there so their eyes didn’t seek it out, like they did with the one on his forehead.

“What? You never said!” cried Fred. That was the thing Harry had always liked best about the twins. It wasn’t their jokes and puns, even though they were really funny and Harry certainly appreciated the humour they had brought to the war. It was how protective they were. They were older and stronger and they teased him and Ron and Ginny constantly but they also played the older brother role and took care of them. Harry was moved by that.

“No,” he explained lightly, handing him the shampoo. “This one is newer. From when we fought, Voldemort and I, and he killed the horcrux in me. Well, I supposed you didn’t know about that, the horcruxes.”

Fred didn’t but Regulus was nodding in understanding, completely unsurprised to hear that Voldemort had stored a piece of his soul inside another living being. “A horcrux, of course,” he murmured. “More than one.”

“When was that?” Fred asked in alarm, disregarding the horcruxes, since he didn’t know what they were, and focussing on the more important point of Harry duelling Voldemort again.

“You had already… I went down to the forest to meet him. It is all very complicated, Ron and Hermione got pretty angry afterwards because I shouldn’t have done it. Well, I had to, I totally had to, but it shouldn’t have had to be that way. Me going there to die and all that. Everybody cried, it was very awkward. McGonagall’s cry was terrible. They thought I was dead, you see. Malfoy’s mother, Narcissa, she told him that I was dead but I was not, obviously.”

Fred was trying to build himself a lather beard while listening to Harry intently.

“You left a lot out, you know,” he said. Then—blup—his beard became mutton chops.

Harry’s pyjamas were utterly soaked now and he was dripping blood and vomit all over, so he shrugged out of the pyjamas and sent them with a kick to the little pile where they had left the other ruined clothes.

“Look,” he said, pointing at his chest and the silver star there, a little circle the size of a sickle with rays coming out of it, like the drawing of an explosion. “It is a bit off-centre. It drives me crazy.”

“It’s right over your heart, kid,” Regulus said in all seriousness, and frankly, who was he calling a kid? He was the younger one here.

“It is still a bit to the side.”

“For Merlin’s s— ” But Regulus had smiled and that was the point. Harry wasn’t letting anyone feel bad about their scars.

ooOoo

He got Regulus and Fred in two old, _old_ nightshirts that looked ridiculous and outdated but at least were clean and then began the equally dangerous and taxing process of getting them back to the ground floor. Kreacher was obsessively washing the, well, washing everything in the living room, so Harry moved them to the library. There was also a dining room on that floor but the chairs there had the most uncomfortable backrests of the century (surpassed only by the seats in the Wizengamot), so the library it was. It was nice. There was a feeling of accomplishment. Everybody was clean, if not dressed (Harry had his underwear on, so it counted as half dressed), no one was in pain, Harry had eaten breakfast and they had at least drank a potion.

The doorbell rang again. Five eerie and hollow notes.

“I will pay you two chocolate frogs if you tell them you have converted to the Moon Cult,” said Fred. Maybe he meant it or maybe he was hoping that Harry would forget that he was only wearing a pair of boxers. As if Harry cared even a little bit about what others thought of him. That was Ron’s job.

It was Malfoy. Malfoy, with his white and grey clothes and long hair and absolutely delightful expression of bemusement and judgement. Malfoy, staring at Harry and visibly considering and discarding quip after quip. Harry was getting goose bumps from the cold air and he was suddenly very aware of his lack of clothes, but he refused to cross his arms over his chest lest Malfoy think that he was even slightly ashamed of his nakedness or vulnerable to the elements, either one. He rose his left arm and planted it carelessly against the doorframe. He considered it a small victory when Malfoy’s eyes darted to his arm before returning to staring impassively at his face.

He wasn’t sure what kind of game they were playing, what their dynamic was now, but he thought that neither did Malfoy. He just knew that it was something very different to the visceral animadversion of school. The ill will had vanished, or begun to vanish, that fateful night in the tower. Harry hadn’t known it then and he had descended the stairs hating Malfoy and Snape with all his heart and his blood and the sinews hanging from his bones. But he had also began to notice, like a soft intuition, how much he and Malfoy shared. How both of them were in a place with no footing and high waves crashing over their heads.

“Is there any responsible adult at home that I could talk to?” said Malfoy at last, which, okay, was a bit funny. Harry’s delivery of snark was better, but Malfoy had some wit to him.

“There is always one of the portraits,” Harry said easily, waving an arm as if saying stick and stones might hurt my bones but words and killing curses can’t hurt me. “Come on in.”

“I can’t stay long,” Malfoy warned just as he stepped inside. He looked like he might be instantly regretting everything, which given Harry’s state of disarray was perfectly understandable. But he was there and he followed Harry’s direction to the library.

Malfoy _was_ a strange man, as Luna had said, and this was a strange little visit. He looked surprised that Harry had finished the _Ars Moriendi_ already, which, excuse you Malfoy, but Harry was far from dumb. Harry was pretty smart, actually, only about different things and in different ways. So he might not always remember to grab his gloves or, as it happened today, all of his clothes; but Harry was pretty knowledgeable about how magic worked _and_ he could use both muggle and wizarding money.

Anyway, Harry had finished the book and he had questions about it. There weren’t any books about balance in death specifically. Of course not. That would be things being easy and they never were for Harry. But Malfoy was able to suggest a few books that touched the topic nevertheless. Most were about curses, funnily enough, and only one was about potions. Then again, up until recently they had dumped anything “dark” in the category of curses and there was a lot of misclassification on what exactly was a curse. Harry should know. He had argued a lot that just because something could be used for evil it didn’t automatically make it a cursed and dark artefact. It was only when that was its only purpose that they should call it dark. Plus, curses were something entirely different altogether since most of them were a subcategory of charms, therefore something could be dark without being a curse.

Harry had opinions, all right? Academic opinions even. Malfoy looked very uninterested in them, though. He was staring at Harry with those eyes of his that were so cold and distant. The same distance that Luna put between herself and the world, only Luna was high in the sky, playing with the birds and the clouds, and Malfoy was somewhere in a frozen tundra in the middle of a blizzard.

And here Harry was, in his underwear, giving an impromptu lecture on dark arts to the ex-Death Eater. He looked like one of the parodies the newspapers made of him so he dropped the topic. He rested his hands awkwardly on the new pile of books and the little piece of paper on top of them with the title of the two books they didn’t have in the library.

“Do you— do you think Flourish and Blotts will have them?” he asked, painfully aware that he sounded hesitant and clumsy. There might be something to Regulus’ assertion that he was cursed with a disaster tongue. He glanced at Regulus quickly, as if wanting to check if there was a smirk on that face that was so familiar and strange, but Regulus was in the beginning stages of a headache and was pressing his temple against the corner of the desk.

“I doubt it,” Malfoy said, cold and plain as his eyes, giving nothing away. They had had a moment of ease, a moment to joke and banter in which Harry had felt that he could be weird and speak freely and now it was gone. Malfoy spoke with something that wasn’t the sudden awkwardness that Harry was feeling because a Malfoy would never let their discomfort show, but he was feeling ill at ease too. “Stoll and Stern would be a better bet. They are not illegal to own, but they are not that common even for someone studying DADA. Of course, an Auror’s interest in them won’t rise any alarms, not even in the bookseller.”

“I’m not an Auror anymore, actually.”

Malfoy’s face did something weird at that. It wasn’t like when he came (was brought) yesterday because few things could surpass the shock of finding two resurrected men, but he was surprised nevertheless. More tellingly, he didn’t have anything to say to that other than a soft “uh.”

There was a new tension in the room and Harry was grateful for it because it dispelled the difficult coldness that had settled just before. Malfoy wanted to ask, no, he wanted to _know_ but he didn’t want to ask. Harry had no trouble sharing his reasons for leaving the Auror Office—it would be nice to talk at length about it with someone—but he also knew very well about the invincible power of curiosity and he wasn’t about to renounce holding such power over Malfoy.

“It is not as urgent as finding a cure,” said Harry, the boy who asked the Sorting Hat not to go to Slytherin. “But I do want some information about their legal standing.”

Malfoy blinked twice very quickly which Harry now knew was something he did when he wanted to retreat from his face, to push back on the expressions that wanted to jump out. He twisted his lips, the only signal that he was thinking about it.

“I don’t think that there is much information about it. And I certainly don’t have books on resurrection law lying around. But I will think about it.”

And with that, he left. Cool and bare like a spirit from a frozen lake. It was only after he had left and Harry had climbed up to his bedroom to put some clothes on that he realised that Malfoy hadn’t been wearing wizarding clothes, at least not the typical ones.

Next time he saw him, and Harry knew there would be a next time because Malfoy was _curious_, he would make sure to pay attention to his clothes. 

ooOoo

Next time was the very next morning and Harry’s examination of Malfoy’s clothes had undetermined conclusions. They were too simple to lean either way, wizarding or muggle. Draco Malfoy was a mystery wrapped in plain, non-descript clothes. But here was Harry Potter with his weird habits, checking his cuffs the moment he opened the door and laid eyes on Malfoy and noticing that the trousers were a bit torn and, dare he say it? They had a few specks of mud and little blades of grass stuck to them.

Just as it was difficult to imagine Luna without mud and dirt up to her knees, it was difficult to picture Malfoy anything other than impeccably dressed. Of course Harry had seen Luna clean and shiny and he must had seen Malfoy with dirty shoes after walking through the fields of Hogwarts or coming from Hogsmeade. It was a mental picture, not reality, but the dirty cuffs still were slightly disconcerting, as the little areas of pill in Malfoy’s sweater were disconcerting. Barely noticeable but still there, a hint of, of what? Of old clothes that are comfortable, or can’t be replaced yet, or of the owner not noticing how worn they are. Somehow the latter seemed more difficult to believe than the fact that Malfoy had comfy clothes that were his favourite.

Harry felt overdressed. He was wearing a waistcoat, for Merlin’s sake! At least he wasn’t wearing a tie or a cravat, although he looked incredibly good in the latter.

“Please, come on in,” he said, opening the door wider and smiling just as wide. It was early morning and Harry was already on his second cup of coffee (tea just wasn’t strong enough). The night had been interrupted by a headache, although headache was too soft a word for the demonic torment that ailed Regulus. After that Harry hadn’t been able to sleep and he had decided to go ahead and start the day sometime before five.

Malfoy wore his hair in a low ponytail, with a loose strand framing his face. It was pretty in a very simple way. He came inside and, because even with the door wide open the foyer still managed to be dark, he immediately tripped and lost his balance. Harry caught his arm right away.

“What… _Why?_” asked Malfoy in a tone of confusion and deep judgement that was already familiar.

Harry followed his gaze and looked down at the fifteen bottles of gin that were carefully laid on the floor. There were also four bottles of apple something. Apple liquor. Not cider, something else. On the chiffonier there was a bag with raw offal put under a cold charm, but Harry thought that Malfoy was only looking at the bottles with which he had tripped.

“Well, I had to go out and buy some new towels and many pairs of pyjamas,” he said, certain that the reason would be obvious now. Blessed Luna had come yesterday evening to take care of the boys so Harry was able to run some errands. Getting the books that Malfoy had suggested and also the urgently needed clothes.

“Most of them have stripes!” informed Fred from inside the living room. Regulus must be awake then or Fred wouldn’t be yelling. “Only two have polka dots. Stripes are boring. I wanted one with clouds and sheep and the like.”

Malfoy didn’t care at all about Fred’s nightwear preferences. He was looking at Harry in confusion, silently demanding an explanation for the admittedly concerning amount of bottles sitting by the door. Harry thought that he might win Malfoy’s unconditional help after all, with an astute combination of confusion, outrage and curiosity.

“It is a weird thing to do,” he explained. “Buying so many of anything. Especially the pyjamas, I think. Five sets of towels is weird, but the house is big and it has many bathrooms. The pyjamas, though, over a dozen of them in one go, that’s just strange. But when you also buy copious amounts of alcohol nobody questions anything else you do.”

Harry had considerable experience and knowledge in the art of sneaking, prowling, trespassing and aiding and abetting wanted criminals.

“Someone from the Ministry came and he told him that he was on a bender,” said Fred as they got inside the living room. He was sitting at the end one of the sofas holding a newspaper. Regulus was lying next to him, a cold towel over his face. He waved blindly at them in greeting.

“If it weren’t so risky I would throw an actual party,” added Harry, “or bring some prostitutes at the very least.”

“Oh yes, then no one would mention the towels,” Malfoy said, perfectly serious. There was an odd quality to his voice that Harry couldn’t translate.

No matter, because almost right away Malfoy asked about Harry’s reading and Harry had to explain he hadn’t been able to do much because _first_ he had to go get the books which, as expected, weren’t sold by Flourish and Blotts and the first bookstore in Knockturn Alley didn’t have them in stock so Harry had to go to a second one. Since by then he had exhibited an inordinate interest in them (the first Knockturn bookstore had offered to order them and Harry had refused) he had to go back to Diagon Alley and spend a whole galleon and a half at Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop where he hinted that he might be writing his own DADA manual. Then he had gotten the towels (lilac) and the pyjamas (at least one did not have stripes or polka dots, he was sure) and the alcohol while an inner voice told him that he was paranoid and a second, louder inner voice said that he was not paranoid enough, and—shut your mouth, Malfoy, we all have voices commenting on our actions. Besides, Harry had a point to make about this.

He had a point; what he didn’t have was the words in order to get there. He stared at Malfoy’s ponytail for lack of a better place to look.

“Oh, jolly good Malfoy. Now he will have to start over,” said Regulus.

“No, I don’t! I merely lost my words.”

“Try with peripatetic. It has a nice ring,” suggested Fred. Oh, so Fred was teasing him too. Harry had only stumbled. It was a complex thought to express, all right?

It was… a feeling like an itch or a low burn somewhere inside. No, it was more as if he had burned himself but the injury had been covered in soothing cream and had a soft thick bandage on top. Harry could both feel and not feel the area. There was a numbness over the burning sensation, an awareness of something wrong. It was more bothersome than anything. He couldn’t give it much attention because he was busy with everything else and in any case he was also pretty used to something being deeply wrong somewhere and having just an inkling about it. This kind of thing always made itself known eventually, usually in May or June. They were in November.

But it was hard to explain so Harry glossed over it with a simple “I had a bad feeling” and jumped to the unfortunate incident at dinner time which didn’t cause Regulus’ migraine but might have had something to do with Fred’s nightmares. Luna had gone back to her house that morning with tears in her eyes and so distressed that she had forgotten to take the offal back with her (or one of the bottles, Harry didn’t want them in the house but he didn’t want to throw them away either, it was too much of a waste and he had grown poor).

“The— offal? In the— ?”

“Forget about the offal, it was a mistake,” said Harry quickly. The point was that he hadn’t started with the books about curses until earlier that day (so early that it had been night, in fact). But now the mere mention of the offal had made Fred retch so Harry was quickly coming over to him and Regulus was awkwardly moving away (his arms were so freaking thin, just bones and skin and nothing else).

At first it seemed as if it would pass, but the retching brought real nausea and soon Fred was vomiting a yellow liquid with a pungent odour that was little more than bile. Harry was happy to say that he had had a washbasin ready so everything was contained. He was less happy to notice red specks in the vomit. Fred was bleeding.

Just like the previous time, Malfoy reacted by making himself useful. He grabbed Regulus by the armpits and dragged him to the other end of the sofa. Then he got a glass of water for Fred and even patted him on the back.

The sleeves of his sweater had risen up a little bit revealing a note of colour on Malfoy’s left wrist. Harry knew that it couldn’t be the morsmordre because the mark always sat higher on the forearm, probably to avoid situations like this. Plus, Voldemort’s mark had turned pale white after his death (both times) whereas what Harry had seen was dark and dense.

Fred washed his mouth, spit, and drank the rest of the water. He leaned back against the backrest of the sofa, sighing tiredly. Regulus was pressing a cushion against his face and it was unclear whether he was trying to keep the smell at bay so he wouldn’t start vomiting, too, or if he had the beginnings of another headache.

Malfoy still wanted to know what the story was with the offal because clearly Malfoy’s weakness was his curiosity and it should be exploited for maximum benefit. “I will die this very instant if I don’t receive a satisfactory explanation that mollifies my burning need to know,” he said, or something close to that effect. Since the mere mention of the word had made Fred throw up half his guts, Malfoy was silently mouthing the words. He also followed Harry to the foyer quickly.

Telling it now, it seemed profoundly stupid, but at the time it had seemed quite reasonable and worth taking the chance. Luna had been right about Malfoy, she might have been right about this too. She worked with deathly and death-like creatures and she heard the voices from the Veil, too. It stood to reason that anything she said about death must be worth listening to.

What she said was this: The thestrals were very interested in her whenever she came from Harry’s house. They were always interested in her, but they acted different at those times, as if they could sniff the aroma of death on her. The thestrals were skeletal black horses visible only to those who had also come close to death, so it stood to reason that they could notice something and that there would be a certain affinity between them, Luna, and Regulus and Fred.

So far Malfoy was nodding, but he also had a distant expression as if he didn’t want to be involved with what he could see would be the next step.

Since evidently Regulus and Fred were having trouble with typical human food, Luna thought that maybe the thestral’s diet would work on them.

Everyone had thought it was a sound idea! There was _no need_ for Malfoy to smack his forehead like that and Harry hoped it stung and left a red mark. When Luna had explained they had all nodded and said, “why not?” Of course they had all assumed that thestrals ate night flowers and poppy seeds or something like that. Something lyrical and poetic and related to death in a sweet and tragic metaphor.

The aggravating thing was that Harry _knew_ that thestrals ate raw meat. He knew it, he had studied it in Care of Magical Creatures and he had seen them licking blood off of Hermione and him after the incident with Grawp in the forest. He knew all that and he had forgotten it.

Luna had brought a bag with a few cuts of raw meat and offal swimming in blood. Regulus had vomited with surprising immediacy and energy. It was even more unexpected because the one who kept vomiting and could hardly hold anything down was Fred. Of course Fred had soon joined him and they had both been so nauseated that they got dizzy and fell to the floor.

Luna had shrugged it off because Luna shrugged all failures off. She had thought that it would work because they had seen some small success with the spicy bread. It didn’t, all right, they would try something else.

At this point Malfoy frowned, narrowed his eyes, and slowly asked, “Spicy bread? What is spicy bread?”

Horrible. Spicy bread was horrible and similar in colour and texture to rotting wood. Harry couldn’t believe that anyone would want to eat it yet it was about the only thing Regulus and Fred could keep down.

Malfoy hit his forehead again. Good thing that he didn’t wear any rings. Also the foyer was very dark so Harry didn’t recommend banging anyone’s head against the wall in frustration because they might hit a previously unseen picture frame or more likely a desiccated troll head.

So neither Fred nor Regulus had managed to eat much of anything, other than some spicy bread. They had vomited a lot, began to sweat and gotten a fever. He and Luna kept trying to give them water but even that was hard to manage. They had eventually fallen into a restless sleep that was interrupted when Regulus got one of the headaches that were like a _cruciatus_. It also woke up Fred, of course, but given he had been dreaming about something dark and big dragging him down into a lake and drowning him he hadn’t minded being woken up. Malfoy agreed that it seemed like a nice side benefit.

It had been a terrible night and Luna hadn’t been able to shrug it off. She had left speaking in a low voice and looking anywhere but up. Harry, on the other hand, was smiling and energetic because, well, because someone had to. Because in less than an hour they would hit the twenty-four hour mark being seizure-free, because the post had brought a letter from Hermione full of happy and interesting things, because the cartoon in _The Prophet_ had been particularly funny and Regulus had celebrated it with an actual human laugh rather than a chortled cough.

(Maybe it wasn’t that funny, but Regulus had certainly thought so. Harry thought it might be too real to be funny, poking at the unbearable family pressure many wizarding children faced. It made him want to write Neville and buy him a drink and a big box of chocolate frogs.)

“Do you want some gin?” whispered Harry, pointing at the bottles, before Malfoy left. “Take as many as you want, please. We are not going to use them.”

Malfoy didn’t want any of the bottles of gin or apple-flavour liquor. He did take the offal with him which was surprising because Malfoy didn’t seem like he ate meat let alone touched it unless it had gone through the hands of the most experienced and reputable cook in the country. Then again, he had come to Grimmauld Place with dirty cuffs on his trousers so it was obvious that Harry didn’t know everything about him.

Still, he thought Malfoy had taken the bag just so it wouldn’t be there the next day.

ooOoo

Since Harry hadn’t been able to read much there wasn’t much Malfoy could offer his advice on, so they had talked very briefly in the foyer, Harry oddly wishing all the time that they could talk in a room rather than right by the door as if Malfoy were to bolt midsentence. When pressed for an opinion about the Ministry’s power over Regulus and Fred he had said that the Ministry would do whatever the fuck it pleased, as it always did, and looking for a legal precedent was a waste of time. He would still take a look at the legislation about sentient creatures and see what he found, but he warned Harry that he wasn’t going to like it.

Harry tended to agree. Until a few years ago goblins hadn’t been allowed to ride on the Knight Bus, of course he wasn’t going to like the law.

Malfoy had had something else to say. He was derisive and cutting about it, but it was a pretty good point. They had to bring some order to the chaos. The first measure should be not feeding disgusting things to the patients (Fred immediately yelled that that included broccoli, it was a mystery how could he still hear them whispering in the corridor). The second measure was to build a chart of symptoms so they would know exactly how sick they were and what things were making them better (Harry thought nothing was) and what were making them worse (everything! Especially light during the headaches). This was exactly the kind of thing that Hermione would have already done so Harry had no idea he should do it or where to start.

That last part might be an exaggeration. He knew how to make a list with three columns, one for symptoms and the other two for Regulus and Fred. Harry began working by himself because Fred had fallen asleep suddenly and deeply and Regulus was deciding whether or not it was safe for him to open his eyes. So Harry sat next to them in silence and began to write while he sipped his third cup of coffee of the day. (He knew he shouldn’t, he knew he had already had too much, he didn’t care. He also had a small plate with two slices of toast.)

The first few lines were easy and quick. Seizures, divided in big and small, writing down how many of them they had had; then vomiting, headaches, fever (he didn’t know how high it usually was, but he knew it always came at night).

He didn’t see a pattern to it and he realised now that the last few days were a bit fuzzy so he couldn’t remember how many times exactly he had thought that either of them was going to die mid-seizure. 

Kreacher brought him lunch that Harry ate in the dining room in case the smell of fried fish and chips with salad triggered something. He began to read one of the dark arts book while he ate, looking for anything about balance or curses of reverse action. It had been years since he had had to work and study with such intensity. Not even the Auror Academy had been like this. They had worked a lot there, a lot, but Harry had found with worrying surprise that the theoretical content wasn’t much more advanced than what he already knew and _he_ had skipped his last year of formal education in Hogwarts. If anything, this reminded him of fifth year with the OWLs when—on top of the usual pressure of the exams—he had had the nightmares with Voldemort’s face and the certainty that Umbridge and the Ministry would do anything in their power to fail him.

After lunch both Regulus and Fred stirred and said they didn’t want to eat anything. In Fred’s case because he was feeling too nauseous. Regulus said he wasn’t queasy, he just wasn’t hungry.

Harry wrote it down.

Since they were awake, Harry let them look at the list in case they remembered something better. But not only could they not tell him if he was right or wrong, it turned out they had no idea what day it was or how long they had been back in the living world. Five days were entirely too long and too short. Five days with a beating heart and they could hardly manage to get out of the room, five days of breathing wasted lying on a couch (“a sofa,” Regulus would point out). Five days, just five days when it seemed that they had been languishing there forever, refusing to die and dying nonetheless drenched in blood and sweat.

Harry didn’t know whether time indefinition was a symptom or not because he was also surprised that it had only been five days and that today was Wednesday. Wednesday was common and regular, Wednesday was a generic day. Wednesday should have been cancelled and skipped directly to Thursday. You could deal with resurrections on a Thursday.

“You couldn’t be more different to your father,” Regulus said. He spoke with the same easy tone with which they had discussed the failings of striped pyjamas and the hilarity of today’s cartoon and giving a cat to the favourite child and a toad to the less liked one. He spoke with the same light teasing tone as when he knew the crossword answer without looking at how many squares it took or the letters that were already there.

He spoke as if his words weren’t the equivalent of casting _bombarda_ and _expelliarmus_ on Harry. As if he hadn’t shaken his world and told him something he had never heard. Despite his youth, there was little that Harry hadn’t seen or heard before, but this was certainly it.

_You couldn’t be more different to your father._

“Sorry?” he heard Regulus say. Harry knew he must have a really strange expression on his face. He knew it must look like he was having a small seizure of his own because he was there living it in real time and not knowing what to feel. Sadness over the father he didn’t meet? Sadness that he wasn’t more like the brave man who fought against Voldemort? But also, relief. Relief for not being like James?

Relief, perhaps, that someone saw him as something other than James Potter’s son. James the second. James returned to pick up where he left before he died. He was Harry, not James.

“I mean… No. You are the spitting image of your father. What do I know? I barely met him…”

Harry lifted a hand to silently ask Regulus to stop. He needed this. He needed to savour the moment, the sweetness, the bitterness, the touch of salt. He took two deep breaths and changed his stance like he did before a duel.

“It’s all right,” he said at last. “People aren’t usually that honest.”

Fred was looking at Regulus and him with a worried expression. That was the twins for you, although in this case it was just Fred. They couldn’t stand tension or people fighting so they joked and played pranks and made a lot of noise. Harry had noticed something like that but it had been Ron who explained and gave it sense. After the war, the Weasley children had fought and argued more than ever because Fred wasn’t there and George was too crushed to be the usual buffer.

But the tension in this case wasn’t bad, not entirely. Regulus was staring at Harry with a penetrating gaze, dark brown that he had inherited from his mother instead of the blue that graced his brother’s face. Dark and hard and solid, they were eyes that let nothing through, eyes that saw but didn’t tell, eyes that had deceived the Dark Lord.

“This is amazing,” Regulus said, although he seemed more irritated than amazed. “Even the orphan feels the family pressure.”

Harry felt a smile escape him, jumping from his face before he could be aware of it, wide and bright and amused. It put Fred at ease immediately.

“Everybody tells you that you are like your father and expects you to be just like him,” Regulus guessed. Fred had turned to look at him in admiration because this was something you might not notice initially, but once someone pointed it out it was impossible to deny.

“Down to the food I like,” Harry said, and it felt great saying it. It felt great saying it to people who could understand. Regulus knew a thing or two about expectations, evidently. But Fred too. Fred must know about it because Harry had witnessed how hard it had been for George to learn how to be George, plain George, rather than _FredandGeorge_.

“It’s like my mother was only there to give birth to me, pass me her eyes and die,” added Harry since they were talking about it. “Like I got nothing else from her. No virtue or vice.”

Regulus was nodding. Somehow it was an ominous nod.

“She was unbelievably rude,” he said, firm and strong. The only strong thing about the frail young man. “I didn’t know her much, mind you. She was in another year.”

“And another house.”

“No, she didn’t care about that. She was too rude. I have never seen someone swear as much. I think she made a game of scandalising people.”

Honestly, that sounded a lot like Lily Evans. Sure, Harry hadn’t met her, and all he had heard about her was how beautiful and talented and kind she was. But she had also been aggressively lower class, aggressively defensive of what she was, and that was good.

Regulus grabbed _The Prophet_ again and asked to keep the _Ruff! _cartoon. Harry saw the humour in it now. Wizards had a problem with family pressure. He promised to put it in a little frame, like the one parodying him.

They forgot about Malfoy’s homework after this. The list of symptoms was practically complete in any case. So Harry spent the rest of the evening trying to read three books in half the usual time. There were many mentions of reverse action curses although they tended to be the same examples again and again. The door to that burial chamber in Egypt that could only be opened if one entered backwards. Seven times it had been mentioned and they had only used the same spelling of the name twice. There was a footnote about Devil’s Snare and how the harder you fought it the harder it grabbed you, but it wasn’t really a reverse action case because if you stayed limp it still got a hold of you, just with less strength.

Now, the Mirror of Erised. Harry had gotten the philosopher’s stone because he didn’t want it and that was more on track. Still, the whole idea about reverse action curses came because, from what he had read, the harder people tried to cheat death the quicker they died, often in gruesome ways. This was all interesting and probably very edifying, but the cheating act had been performed already. Fred was alive in Harry’s living room reading softly to Regulus and making funny voices. What Harry needed was something to work as a fixative.

ooOoo

Luna came at dinner time. She was wearing a cheddar yellow sweater that was greedily ugly. Harry knew, and he had no idea how he knew it, at what point had Luna shared that tidbit with him, that she always put it on when she felt sad. As if the colour could force the sadness away, probably at knife point because it was an aggressive shade of yellow.

Harry hated it.

She had come with a bag with her things, clearly intending to spend another night there. Harry put a firm, swift end to the idea. It was too draining for Luna and she had a life and creatures to attend to. She was unexpectedly stubborn about it and they had a whispered argument in the foyer until they realised that Regulus and Fred could hear them perfectly because they had both come to the door to watch.

Regulus had got a cravat somewhere and put it on. It might be the one Harry had found in one of his pockets and chucked discreetly under the armchair when Malfoy wasn’t looking. Navy blue pyjamas with thin white stripes and pastel yellow cravat. It was something to see. It was how Harry imagined Malfoy went to sleep, at least before he had a mysterious breakdown and decided to show himself in public with dirty cuffs.

An agreement was reached. Luna would stay every other night so that, as Harry put it, they could both be equally miserable and sleep deprived even though only one of them worked with dangerous carnivorous creatures.

“Not everything carnivorous is dangerous. You have not seen a cow running,” she said, bending down to retrieve something from her bag.

It was a cheese.

“It’s really bland” she said, playing with the tassels of her coat. The argument had broken so quickly she hadn’t had time to get her coat off. Now Regulus gave two clumsy steps into the foyer and asked to take it from her.

They had dinner in the dining room. He and Luna eating meat and veg with Kreacher’s special gravy which lately was particularly special because he forgot about the flour and added too much or not at all. Regulus and Fred had the bland and odourless cheese and a new loaf of spicy bread before them.

Luna was smiling at them with a goofy smile full of hope. They each got a slice and began to spread the cheese on it.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I really thought that the off— ”

“Don’t mention it,” warned Harry, curt and firm so she would understand that it wasn’t about politeness it was about the nausea that hit them whenever offal or meat or anything like that was mentioned. They had had to sit on the other end of the table because the mere vision of their dinner (nondescript meat, carrots and potatoes) had made Regulus turn green.

“It’s just, the spicy bread is working, so why not?”

“Really, don’t worry. But understand that they are completely different products.”

Harry wasn’t a fan of offal, raw or not, but he could see why some creatures might want to eat it. Meat was tasty after all. What he couldn’t understand was why would anyone eat the spicy bread that had little spice other than a ginger aftertaste and a lot of crustiness. And yet Harry had assumed it was intended for humans because, well, he didn’t know why he had assumed that. Apparently not, which was why Luna had decided them to feed them thestral food. The spicy bread was what she was feeding the feathery green-black creature Harry had seen asleep in a cage at Luna’s.

“What is this, parrot food?” asked Fred opening his eyes a lot. He didn’t stop chewing though. Harry had high hopes of them finishing a whole slice.

“Of course not! It is not for a bird, it’s a snake.”

Fred turned to Harry with a confused look that he was sure he also had on his face.

“What, like a magma snake?” asked Regulus, dabbing quickly at his mouth with the napkin. Harry hoped it wasn’t one of the dirty ones. “I thought they were extinct, how did you get one in Britain?”

Fred and Harry shared another look of confusion as Regulus dragged his chair down the table so he could sit closer to Luna and hear her explanation. The feathery green-black thing was indeed a magma snake which was an achievement on its own and so was managing to keep one alive in a wet and cold country. Luna didn’t know much about where it had been found, to her frustration. Someone had found the incredibly valuable creature and rather than notifying the zoowizard community and the local authorities they had taken it to sell it on the black market for ingredients.

Then it had come into Luna’s possession.

There was a very evident step missing in the chain of events. If the merchant had been arrested the cargo would have been seized through official channels and the snake might have gone to the Department of Magical Creatures unless some other department stepped in (bloody Department of Mysteries, but the Wizengamot might want it as evidence too). But it had gone to Luna.

So either someone had bought the snake for her illegally… Or they had stolen it from a smuggler.

If he didn’t know better, Harry would suspect himself. It was the kind of thing he would do. See for evidence the two young men sitting at his table, although it was actually Regulus’ table. But it hadn’t been him so he suspected Neville. Neville cultivated the image of a soft chubby flower boy but Harry knew better. The chubbiness hid significant strength and Neville had come to him asking for some pointers in duelling because apparently he had come across poachers four times already. Harry didn’t want to know.

Fred turned to Harry to talk as the conversation between Regulus and Luna became too technical or weird. She was talking about that Crumple-Horned Snorkack again.

“Charlie,” Fred said, looking down at his hands. There was blood under the nails and in the folds and cuticles. The freckles looked like age spots.

Harry told him about Charlie. That he was still in Romania. That someone in the family had started a rumour that he had a tattoo. That he was still single.

Fred drank his words like a thirsty man gulping down poison, like Regulus might have taken the Draught of Despair. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to see his family again, go outside in the world, play and laugh.

That piece of toast with insipid cheese was the first thing he had eaten that day. It looked like any moment now he would lose his fingernails.

Fred’s eyes began to close and Harry took him back to the living room and got him settled on the sofa. Regulus said that he wasn’t tired and that he wanted Luna to tell him more about her herd of thestrals, but the moment they put him on the sofa he fell asleep.

Luna left soon after that. She had already taken a bottle of gin yesterday and she didn’t want anymore. Harry had the sensation that she took all the noise with her when she left. The house was perfectly silent. Regulus and Fred’s breath barely made any noise, soft and quiet like a newborn’s. Kreacher had been sent to bed as soon as he served them dinner (Harry could take care of the dishes) and he didn’t make any sound at all. Curled under the sofa that had become Regulus’, eyes tightly closed, he looked like a wooden figure. His skin had turned ashen in the last few years and he had many wrinkles. At least he accepted the fabrics Harry gave him so he was dressed in wool and cotton for the winter.

Harry was tired, very tired, but seeing the room in silence and everyone sleeping in peace gave him a new boost of energy. He grabbed one of the books on curses and began to read. He had nothing, not the sound of soft breathing nor even the tick of a clock to accompany him. Only the very occasional rustling of a blanket.

At last, at a quarter past eleven, Harry found his first honest mention of someone returned from Death. Not a ghost or a spectre but someone who was dead for three whole days and then was alive. Of course three days wasn’t nine years or twenty-six, but it was something. It had happened in 1512 in Germany, although it wasn’t called Germany then. A girl called Margaretha had died. The cause remained unclear, which was a pity because it might be important. A local wizard had been in love with her, so much so that he stole the body before it could be buried. The chronicles didn’t know what he did exactly, only that two days later Margaretha returned to her house, alive.

And that was it. The book didn’t say another word about it. Nothing about what happened later or who was that wizard and why people didn’t flock to him asking to repeat the miracle. It did say where it had happened: Nievoldhagen.

The word meant something to Harry.

He still didn’t know how to use Malfoy’s nifty trick to find books quickly in the library, but he knew the general area where he had to look. This was one of his own books, not the house’s. He had put them in a beautiful bookcase right by the library door where he knew he wouldn’t lose them. Books about Defence Against the Dark Arts for the most part, with a shelf dedicated to Quidditch and other fun things. There was also a muggle and wizarding guide to Germany, recently acquired, so he would know what Hermione was talking about. The guide had a map, which was nice. He looked for Nievoldhagen there although he knew he had seen the mention somewhere else.

It was in a DADA book, one about dark creatures. The last two chapters were about sentient or quasi-sentient creatures. So less manticores and basilisks and more werewolves and banshees. The Creature of Nievoldhagen was an evil monster that disguised itself in the shape of a beautiful maiden. Nobody knew where it came from, only that Gebhard the Quick had been the first wizard to fight the monster that was attacking the terrified muggle population. Gebhard had failed and the creature had eaten his face before ripping his head off which was the kind of detail that stuck in your mind hence why Harry had remembered the story.

Somehow, Harry thought that Margaretha didn’t return the wizard’s affections.

The creature had devoured most of the village’s population until a young muggle boy from a neighbouring village cut off her head. Immediately afterwards the boy had turned the sword against himself; such was the dark power of the Creature of Nievoldhagen that she could bend muggles to her will.

Harry went back to the living room. Both Regulus and Fred were awake. They rarely got more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep.

“You would tell me if you felt like chewing on someone’s face, right?”

“Harry didn’t you see what happened yesterday? And this morning?” cried Fred. He grabbed a corner of the blanket and pulled it up to his chin, protecting himself from Harry’s noxious influence.

“Draco said not to feed us nasty things,” added Regulus. He had his legs up on the back of the sofa, his long hair falling down. He had been awake a while then. Harry was glad he had gotten them in pyjamas and out of the old nightshirts. “Just what are those books of yours suggesting?”

“It’s not a suggestion. Just a symptom you might have,” Harry explained, seating himself on a small footrest with lion legs.

“Sudden cannibalism?”

Harry shrugged. It would be remiss of him not to check.

“No appetite whatsoever,” said Regulus, still sitting upside down. “For humans or human food.”

“Or thestral food.”

Fred got up, blinked quickly and put a hand on the backrest of the nearby armchair until the dizzy spell passed. Then he looked for the symptom list and grabbed it. Harry passed him a quill silently as Fred dropped down on the armchair. 

_Cannibalism_, Fred wrote right under _paralysis after a seizure._ Then he put two Xs under his and Regulus’ name.

“What was the other? Ah, yes, appetite.”

No appetite either, but Regulus got two exes while Fred had just one on account of Fred being able to eat some spicy bread on occasion.

“Put sleep since you are at it,” Harry said.

Sporadic. It was more a series of naps than actual sleep and when they slept they had nightmares. Apparently a nightmare had woken both of them half an hour ago while Harry was in the library. Regulus didn’t want to talk about his, but Fred had dreamed that he drowned in a pool of guts and blood and now it was hard to breathe when he closed his eyes.

Harry wasn’t keen on knowing what _he_ was going to dream that night.

“I dreamed that he found out and sent all his Death Eaters after me.” Regulus said very softly and Harry felt his heart squeeze. There was no question about who he was. They didn’t need any more details, really.

“I think there are still some dreamless potions in the bathroom upstairs.” Harry didn’t like taking them much because the sleep wasn’t as good but he had still had to get some. Funnily, he didn’t dream about Voldemort most of the time and when he did it didn’t feel like a nightmare but like a bothersome task. Voldemort again trying to ruin something.

It was the closet under the stairs. It was someone taking his wand and his money and being forced to depend on someone, to answer to someone. It was being in school with lots of rules and having to obey, obey, obey.

“I just want to rest,” Fred said, as softly as Regulus had spoken. “I just want to not be worried.”

Harry looked instinctively at the painting, the ruins, the figure sitting down. It was the most static painting he had seen in the wizarding world, but there was a depth to it. Fred’s eyes followed his and looked at it. The sun had set in the painting and the ruins were now under a starry night.

Regulus was looking at it too so it wasn’t just Harry who found something soothing in it.

“I think I saw her push her hair away earlier,” said Regulus. He was still speaking softly but there was nothing of the aching desolation from when he mentioned his dream. He spoke softly like one did when seeing a woodland creature.

“I always thought it was a boy,” Harry said, because he did. Many men wore their hair long. Sirius did. The Malfoys did. Bill Weasley had the most beautiful mane, better than his sister’s. Even Regulus had long hair.

“It’s a girl,” Regulus said firmly.

ooOoo

The next day was actually three, maybe four, mashed together in a blur of fear, anxiety and lack of sleep that dissolved somehow into a rainy Saturday afternoon. Harry remembered everything, just not in the correct order. He knew he had slept twice, once falling down absolutely exhausted and waking up with a crick in his neck and pins and needles in his left arm because he had pressed it against the bars of the headboard. The other he had a nightmare in which Regulus and Fred turned into, into the shells people became when kissed by a dementor. Breathing and moving and unable to do anything else. At first they didn’t even react to Harry’s presence but when he pushed them and screamed and begged for a reaction they opened their mouths and spoke without moving their lips.

“_Your fault.”_

Luna came and went and she must have been the one putting him to sleep. Malfoy came too and he was there during one of the crisis. Because there were many crisis, oh so many. At least they were eating a little bit, spicy bread and white tasteless cheese.

First, or third, who knew? First they had a Fever. They had had fever before but this deserved the capital F because it had them shivering and chattering their teeth, eyes glassy, skin hot to the touch and covered in sweat. Then Regulus had a febrile seizure which was a fun new type of seizure with more convulsions but no arch phase. Not to be left out, Fred began coughing and spitting blood and when he went to the loo to rinse his mouth and face he had a seizure and almost cracked his head open which was exactly Harry’s fear. Oh, and they still had nightmares so they couldn’t get eight or even four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

At least they hadn’t tried eating anyone’s face. Not even a chomp on a hand.

“You have a very strange brand of optimism, Potter.”

Malfoy had come every day and things had been so bad that he had even stayed more than strictly necessary, when before he had always been ready to bolt. Harry remembered seeing him sitting in an armchair with a notebook in his hands which meant he had been there a while. It wasn’t important, though. What was important were the cuffs. Trouser cuffs and sleeve cuffs. The first ones were still stained with green and dirt and had a hole on the heel, much like Harry’s used to have. The wrist cuffs though, oh here it came, the wrist cuffs had been lifted to avoid getting them wet and thus they had revealed a bit more of the streak of colour in the left wrist.

The mark Harry had seen was the bottom of a teapot. Yes, Malfoy had a teapot tattooed at the base of his wrist. Then there had been some incident involving blood or maybe one of the worst bouts of fever when they had to fill a washbasin with ice water to give Fred some relief. The sleeve had climbed up a bit more revealing five or six centimetres of skin. A scroll of steam came out of the teapot’s spout climbing up the forearm and spreading to create the canvas of a multicolour painting.

ooOoo

Malfoy had had time to research the legalities of Regulus and Fred’s status. Having examined the precedents Harry had found on resurrection (a total of five) and compared them with the resolutions taken both by the Wizengamot and the Ministry Cabinet through the figure of Special Decrees, it was his opinion that the Ministry could do whatever the fuck it wanted.

If Malfoy had expected a reaction from Harry, a rise of the eyebrow at the expletive, he was bound to be disappointed. He would have better luck lifting his sleeve to the elbow. 

Malfoy _had done_ his homework. It wasn’t just his general dislike of the Ministry speaking. The wizarding world had a history of treating people badly, worse if they were not human. They were only now starting to see some progress in the movement against werewolf segregation. The decree allowing werewolf children to attend Hogwarts had been passed last year.

And it could be argued that Regulus and Fred weren’t human.

Harry had compiled a small list of resurrections, with Margaretha in the second place (there was this medieval monk who kept walking around even after having his head chopped off) and Voldemort in the fifth position. All the stories ended badly, which didn’t help their case at all and actually supported the opposite of what they wanted: that Regulus and Fred weren’t humans, not anymore; that they were monsters and that they were dangerous. That was all the Ministry needed to do whatever they wanted.

“Of course they won’t go against a Weasley,” Malfoy said, leaning back against a small writing table in the library. Aeneas was by his arm, hoping for a treat or a pet. “Not publicly, at least.”

But Regulus didn’t have the defence of a big, well-liked family with members working in the Ministry and Gringotts. Regulus only had Harry and Luna, maybe Malfoy, to speak for him.

“I will brew you a remedy for the fever,” Malfoy said as he went towards the door, one hand touching the wall because the crowded foyer was becoming a trap. “See if it works.”

“Thanks. Do you need— ?”

“I don’t want any gin, Potter, I already took one bottle. Just move it somewhere else.”

“Ingredients. Do you need any ingredients, Malfoy?”

“No.”

“What about firecrackers?”

Even in the darkness of the foyer Harry could see him rolling his eyes. He left right away although not before Harry made him accept a loaf of bread (not the spicy abomination), a blue cheese, a big jar of raspberry yogurt and a package of sliced turkey, all of which had been previously given to Regulus and Fred with poor results. The firecrackers were not for eating, obviously, just another aim at misdirection.

Malfoy was right and Harry should move the things away from the door rather than dropping them in the foyer the moment he stepped inside. He also knew he wasn’t going to do it because the moments when he wasn’t helping Regulus and Fred through a crisis he was studying and researching. Moving aside a few bags of yarn or a box with firecrackers didn’t seem that important. It had to be him, too, because he didn’t want Kreacher dragging heavy stuff down the kitchen stairs and he had forbidden him to do so. He supposed the house elf could apparate, but Harry didn’t like it. If Kreacher was too old to take things down the stairs by hand then he was too old to grab them and apparate with them.

Harry had had to leave the house a couple of times during the last few fuzzy days. First he needed some ingredients and medical supplies to treat Regulus and Fred, and then he needed a couple of obscure history books (one of them was a long poem) so he could learn more about Resurrected Case #3. (A Mesoamerican warrior who fell in a volcano, walked it off, and then set a forest on fire for unclear reasons. Harry suspected that, like in Margaretha’s case, someone had presumed too much about someone else’s affections.) The food was all Luna.

This meant that he had to buy something extravagant to divert attention. Something that made people say, “Harry Potter just bought eight kilos of firecrackers and two books. I wonder what he wants to do with so many firecrackers,” rather than, “Harry Potter just came into my bookstore and got two books, I have only sold two copies of them and one was to Potter, I wonder what the book says.” He knew very well that he couldn’t avoid the public’s interested gaze, but he could obfuscate it.

He had also gotten a small golden frame for the _Ruff!_ cartoon Regulus had liked so much. This wasn’t necessary or urgent except for how Harry thought it was extremely important. It was something Regulus wanted, something he liked, and if the fever ended up taking him or one of the seizures finished him, then Harry would find himself with a cutout in a folder knowing that he could have done something else for Regulus, something good, something that brought him joy, and that he hadn’t. So he bought the frame and put the cartoon strip in it and gave it to Regulus and saw him smile. A good smile too. There was pain and poison in the corners of the smile just like they were in Harry’s mouth when someone asked him about the past, about Dumbledore or Sirius or the Dursleys. The smile squeezed the poison out from the body. It was good.

Regulus, actually Fred too, bemoaned the nonexistence of a book that compiled all of the _Ruff!_ strips. Everybody agreed because everybody liked the silly cartoon about the wizard and his dog. Even Malfoy got a soft expression in his face when he saw Regulus’ strip in a place of honour in the living room (Harry supposed that he knew something about family pressure, too), so Harry took him to the library and showed him the one that parodied him. The cartoon showed Barry Powder on Halloween freaking out over the imminent danger that was sure to befall given his personal history with the holiday, from troll in the dungeons to parental murder. 

“You… I don’t think you were supposed to like this, Potter. Let alone _frame_ it.”

“I do whatever I want, as you might have observed, Malfoy,” Harry said easily. Lately bantering with Malfoy had become easy and fun and whatever you called a situation that made you feel… relief. Harry said outrageous things and Malfoy bit every time and acted all shocked and aggravated and there was nothing of the old viciousness that lay between them.

Understanding. That was the word Harry was looking for. They had an understanding now, despite their differences. As if every word and every look they exchanged was nothing more than a mask disguising a sentence repeated again and again. _The world is crazy. You see it too, don’t you?_

“Besides, it is more accurate than anyone would believe. Look at the present situation.”

“You did not find them on Halloween,” Malfoy said. His eyes were closer than usual. Not physically, they were not standing closer than necessary. Just, there was less of that distance Malfoy put between himself and the world. His eyes looked at Harry from across a pond or a small lake rather than across a desert of ice and never ending storms.

“No,” Harry admitted. He had not found Regulus and Fred on Halloween. That would have been too neat, returning on the night of the dead. “But close enough. First week of November.”

The pond that separated them had cold waters, but it wasn’t frozen.

“May and June were interesting times, too,” offered Malfoy as if he were talking about the most convenient route to the city rather than robbery and multiple murders and the return of the Dark Lord.

Harry chuckled. It wasn’t the words, it was the way Malfoy said it. He couldn’t describe it fairly, just that the tone had an inherent something that made it funny.

“He probably couldn’t fit it all in a Sunday special,” Harry said, pointing at the cartoon. He would like to see it, though.

ooOoo

Since he had had to visit many bookstores Harry had also gotten on impulse a book that compiled _The Prophet_’s crosswords from the last three years. Regulus had looked ridiculously happy when Harry handed it to him although the happiness was short-lived because the book got its pages wet and creased inside the hour and had blood stains on the cover. Luna said that it shouldn’t matter, that the book wasn’t going to keep its pristine state for long anyway. Then she sat on the floor, by Regulus’ sofa, and began to fill in a crossword with him. It was almost cosy, a rainy Saturday night at home filling a crossword with friends some of which had been dead a week ago.

“Harry, do you only have black ink?” she asked after a while. They had completed the first one in record speed because even in agony Regulus had enviable memory and general knowledge.

“I have some muggle pens,” he said without turning around. Fred had had a small seizure and Harry was helping him through some exercises to check if he was recovering well. He thought that his left eye wasn’t moving as it should. “They are blue.”

Blue wasn’t a very interesting ink colour. Pink or orange or bright green would be better. Harry knew that at some point he had owned a bottled of colour-changing ink, but if he hadn’t finished it then he was sure that it would be dry in any case.

“You can…” Regulus was trying to shift position, sit up so he could point at the book and the inkwell. “_Color mutatio_ is a simple transfiguration, the trick is applying it only to the ink and not the whole thing.”

And then he realised he didn’t have a wand with him. Probably the most defining feature of a wizard, the first thing the Thicknesse government had gone after, the thing they took from you if expelled from Hogwarts. It meant something that a week had passed and he was only now missing it.

Most likely it meant that he had been, was, horribly sick. A wizard never parted from his wand. A wand was what pushed Grindelwald to the biggest depravities, a wand was what distracted Voldemort enough to make him vulnerable.

Regulus didn’t have one.

“I had it with me,” he said, sad and low. Luna was still sitting on the floor, her back against the sofa. She rose a hand over her shoulder to lightly grab Regulus’ left hand. “When I— I had it with me. And then, I had the same clothes. In the arch.”

“What are we talking about?” asked Fred. The left side of his mouth was hanging a bit low.

“Your wands.”

“Oh.” He could press Harry’s hands with the same strength, at least. “I don’t have mine.”

Harry was pretty sure that they hadn’t any wands with them when they crossed the arch in the Department of Mysteries. Yes, he was positive. No he did not look for them but he looked at _the floor_ where Regulus and Fred had been and he didn’t see them. No, he didn’t think that both of their wands had fallen out of their pockets and that they had left without them.

Actually, now that he thought about it, Fred might have been buried with his wand. Either that or George had got it and kept it safe somewhere.

Harry spoke before Fred made the suggestion. “I am not opening your grave to check if your wand is in there.”

“It would be interesting to see if there is… something else.” Luna said. For all the light and music that hung around her like an aura or like the veil of a fairy queen, Luna could be quite morbid. It was almost natural for her.

“I am not opening anyone’s grave looking for wands or skeletons,” Harry said in a parent-like tone. “And neither are you,” he added, because he knew Fred and because although he didn’t know Regulus that well he knew him enough to know he was trouble. Regulus did whatever he wanted and damn the consequences.

“Kreacher,” called Harry. The house elf was mopping the results of Fred’s little seizure. Mostly because he insisted on doing it. “I will finish that. Can you go upstairs and see if there are any wands from other Black members?”

Kreacher disapparated before Harry could say anything else about going slowly and calling if he needed help moving heavy things.

Kreacher came back two hours later with seven wands. Three of them were about to fall apart: two had been snapped and had only a few fibres of wood keeping the pieces together, the other had rotted and had the texture of wet sawdust. The other four were all right. A bit old in their design, perhaps. They had no way to know what was at their cores and they also couldn’t recognise the woods accurately so the four wands were Long Wand #1, Long Wand #2, Average Length Wand in Comparison and Short Black Wand. They all agreed that one of the two long wands had a reddish tone but they didn’t agree on which one.

They didn’t get to try them because Regulus got a headache, a big one, the kind where he tried to stab himself in the temple to make it stop. Fred was coughing blood, attempting to be discreet by keeping a handkerchief pressed against his mouth so they would help Regulus and not mind him.

That was the thing. The days were blurring together in a cycle of tension and release, fear and desperate laughter. The cartoon strips the only thing marking the passing of time. The crossword book fell to the floor and some of its pages got crumpled. Harry forgot about the little bazaar he was building in the foyer. Nobody tried—or chose—any of the wands.

ooOoo

If someone, probably Malfoy although it could be Hermione too, if someone told Harry that they could fill a warehouse with all the things he didn’t know, Harry would laugh and say that they could fill a warehouse, a freight train and a whole city. Harry was very aware that there were many things he didn’t know.

Which wasn’t bad. The same thing had been said by a philosopher and it was widely considered to be very clever and wise. Accepting your ignorance was certainly better than thinking that you knew it all and then falling to an unknown. Still, Harry wished he knew more things. He knew a lot, actually. It might surprise people, because Harry was humble and aware of his ignorance about many topics, but he knew a lot. About charms and defence against the dark arts, of course, about casting theory, and lately, about history and art. He didn’t have a word for it but he also knew a lot about people, about their behaviour and their feelings.

But the point was that there was a lot Harry didn’t know. He didn’t know why Regulus and Fred had come back to life. He didn’t know what to do to keep them that way for many years to come.

He didn’t know that someone else had noticed the disturbance in the Veil.

He didn’t know that there was someone searching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have tried to portray medical issues accurately. In case of a seizure, the current advice is avoiding further harm, not holding the person down, gently turn their heads to avoid choking. However, I do not have medical studies and you should not get advice from a fic. I’m just saying this because we tend to remember more what we have seen in a story.


	2. Ignorance

ooOoo

PART TWO

Ignorance

ooOoo

There were many things that the person, if they could be called a person, looking for Regulus and Fred didn’t know.

They didn’t know what they were looking for. They didn’t know it was Regulus and Fred.

They didn’t know Harry was involved.

They only knew that something had crossed the arch. Something that should be bound to them—

—or destroyed.

ooOoo

How could anyone talk about them? That person, the interested party? Was it a single entity or was it an aggregate of many consciences? Was he a man? A woman? Neither? Was it even human?

It was impossible, you see. It was impossible to pin them down under a pronoun. They were too big and too tall to fall down under a little word. Besides, words have power. Words have magic. The interested party didn’t know or understand very well the power of language, but they knew enough to know that it was better to be protected against it. Far too many powerful tyrants had fallen, their empire collapsing under their feet, because of a word out of place. 

Look at Voldemort. _Lord _Voldemort. He thought he understood and he had hidden his real name, like folktales advise you to do, and chosen a new one for himself. And then he had forbidden people from even uttering that one, his second name.

But he had fallen because of a word. Because a stupid woman had said “no.”

(_No, I will not move aside… No, he is not alive…_)

Grindelwald too. Handsome as the sun, clever like hunger. He had climbed higher than anyone else, he had been really close to getting the world to bend the knee and bow to him. And then what? Then someone who knew him well had said “Gel, please.” It might had been the pet name or it might had been the “please.” One of the words was strong enough to give Grindelwald pause, to make him hesitate for a second, and Dumbledore had used that second to his advantage and defeated him.

There had been others. Wizards claimed to have long memories but they could be remarkable forgetful when it suited them. Before Gellert Grindelwald there had been Apollina Giraud, from Belgium, and Archibald Forge-Kaylock once again in England. Apollina had been furious when a daring black woman had called her a _grosse trouille_. She had lifted her arm extra high so her curse would hit the woman with all the strength of a lash. She had left her core open to an attack, an attack _without a wand_ which was frankly humiliating but just as lethal as a good _avada kedavra_. Apollina Giraud _la Cruelle_ had been killed with an insult and a weapon made of bone.

Humiliating, but less so than Archibald Forge-Kaylock who had had undisputed control of the Indian Ocean, had forged an alliance with the muggle government and received many honours from the Queen, had been this close to becoming king himself of the territories there, king of wizards and muggles… And then he had _believed_ a woman when she said she wanted him, when she said “come,” leaving the door to her bedroom open.

It turned out that the British muggles had different ideas about who should rule the empire.

Language was dangerous.

So the interested party took care to protect itself from language. The interested party begged and ordered the dark spirits to unsex and unname it, to take the self and hide it, to leave only a sliver of a mask and to make even that hidden and concealed.

Nobody could talk about the interested party.

Nobody could think about the interested party.

The interested party was only known when it wanted to make itself known.

ooOoo

Harry had done a pretty good job. An excellent job. Harry had done everything right even when he was walking blindfolded. Harry had solved for x without an equation.

He had taken Regulus and Fred to a safe place. He left no trace that they had been in the Department of Mysteries other than a faint smell of vomit. He had asked for help from people outside his immediate circle. He had covered his trace. Regulus and Fred couldn’t be tracked down to him and, in turn, his current weirdness couldn’t be linked to what had happened in the Department of Mysteries. He had already quit the Auror Office before the first ripples appeared in the Veil.

He had done everything outstandingly well which was why the interested party didn’t turn their attention to him until the ninth day. Sunday.

The street was deserted. It was cold and windy and it had rained the night before. The wind shook the trees along the street so the people braving the outside would get droplets of icy water that felt like bullets in their skin.

Number 12 of Grimmauld Place had three floors with four windows on each looking out at the street. The ground floor only had three, though. Two big and wide for the dining room and one for the living room. Life in the living room should be carried out in a twilight state, with just one window facing the street and a second one that looked at the next house (number 13) so the inhabitants of the house could judge their neighbours from the relative comfort of their easy chairs.

The interested party looked at the windows. The one in the living room had the curtains drawn close except for a little sliver in the middle. The ones in the dining room had the curtains apart, but there was a second set of translucent curtains to give an extra layer of privacy.

Most of the curtains were drawn close and the windows looked like closed eyes. But some were not. There were the ones on the left on the second floor, which was Harry’s bedroom. There was also one window to the right on the third floor. Kreacher had moved the curtains so he would have more light while he looked for the wands.

From an outside perspective, the curtains, the windows, the façade of the house didn’t say much. But the interested party was, well, _interested_ and it looked at all of it attentively.

The interested party didn’t know of Harry’s involvement. It knew, they knew, that Harry had been acting oddly for the last two months and that this oddity had increased during the last week, but nothing else. The interested party preferred acting on knowledge rather than intuition, but the truth was that intuition had a lot to do with their behaviour. Intuition had pushed them into hiding their name and presence. Intuition had called them to the Room of Death that Friday at midday.

However, intuition meant noticing something but not knowing, not understanding, and so the interested party disliked it. Intuition was a half knowledge and therefore abhorrent.

Yet the interested party was here because their intuition said that Harry Potter was involved. Even more irrationally, the interested party wanted him to be involved so they could feel justified in taking the risk of eradicating him. It disliked Harry Potter deeply.

Harry was happy to follow his instincts and listen to his intuition and if the interested party learned this it would hate Harry even more. But this was not the reason why it hated Harry.

The interested party hated Harry because he was wrong. Because he was a mistake. Because he was a competitor.

The interested party hated Harry because twice already he had cheated death.

ooOoo

Harry might have escaped death twice but at the moment he was failing miserably at getting a peek of Malfoy’s tattoo. Regulus and Fred had noticed and were highly entertained. To clarify, they had noticed Harry looking, not the tattoo, they hadn’t noticed it even though the tattoo became visible when Malfoy was near them, holding hair back and pressing a wet sponge on a feverish forehead. That they hadn’t seen. But they saw Harry looking and if they were noticing it in their feverish state _then_ surely Malfoy had noticed Harry’s interest too. And what was he doing about it? _Nothing!_

That was the most infuriating part. He did nothing. He didn’t cover the tattoo because Harry’s gaze bothered him, but he also didn’t expose it more so Harry could _look_ and see what the steam of the teapot turned into. No, he went on as always: brought a small potion for the fever that didn’t do much in lowering their temperature but helped with the associated headache and the inability to concentrate. Backed Harry when he said that it probably wasn’t a good idea for Regulus and Fred to attempt to do magic, at least not without practicing with a twig first to make sure they wouldn’t botch the spell and blow up the whole house. Made fun of every single aspect of Harry’s life and looked reluctantly amused when Harry sassed back.

Harry could devise a plan to get Malfoy wet or hot or dirty, anything so he would take off his sweater and reveal the tattoo on his left arm. Or Harry could just ask.

“Can I see your tattoo?” he blurted, as Malfoy stood up from Regulus’ sofa with a basin of now tepid water in his hands.

Malfoy looked surprised. Either Harry had learned to see past his mask or he wasn’t bothering to conceal his expressions so much anymore.

“I mean, the new one. If that’s all right. I already know about the other one,” he went on. Regulus was shifting in his place and turning around to look at Harry talk. “I am not interested in the morsmordre.”

Malfoy was looking at him in silence, back straight and face relaxed and inscrutable. Harry wished he could punch himself in the face but instead he kept talking which had more or less the same effect.

“It will probably be very faint anyway.”

Malfoy looked almost placid. It was a very strange look on him, something Harry didn’t know how to interpret.

“It’s like watching a baby griffin learning to walk and setting something on fire in the process,” said Regulus. It was unnecessarily mean because Harry had just been asking an honest and judgement-free question, but he was also grateful that Regulus had spoken because it meant that he could shut up now.

“Or not,” Harry went on, because he was the worst. “If that makes you uncomfortable. Maybe it’s a private thing, if you wanted to cover his mark. You don’t have to show me. I was just curious, but it’s all right.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes slowly and deliberately, making a show of it while he still kept that placid expression that was frankly a bit scary. You couldn’t know if he was amused or planning to put poison in your tea.

Then he turned around and left so he could dispose of the basin.

“Merlin’s pants, I don’t know why I say anything.” Harry smacked himself on the forehead to Regulus’ delight.

ooOoo

The wind was cold and sharp and cruel. It was the kind of wind that had people dreaming of snow. Snow would be better. Snow would take the edge off the cold.

The interested party ignored the sharp bite of the wind and instead focussed on what it brought. The Smell of Death.

The interested party got closer to the house. It stopped on the sidewalk on the line that separated the sphere of the house from the street. The line where the _fidelius_ charm used to be.

Harry had gotten rid of it pretty early after the war. It had been quite an intense experience because the original caster and secret keeper was dead and many of the inheritor keepers were dead too. The _fidelius_ was torn and tattered and hardened, like a piece of fabric that has been left too long to dry in the heat. But once the spell was gone everyone was free to come to the house and it was good, it was a sign of the times changing. Besides there was a lot to rebuild and Harry was glad to be able to offer a bed to all those who needed it. Now the only thing preventing entrance to an outside agent was the door and the common charms that every wizarding house had.

(And maybe one or two less common ones, because this was the House of Black after all.)

From where it stood, the interested party also got clear accents of the smell of death. Notice this, though. This was different from the Smell of Death. The latter is stronger but more difficult to learn.

The smell of death was like the ability to see thestrals. It wasn’t exactly common but it couldn’t be called rare either. It was the knowledge of death, the knowledge that someone had died or had been killed. Ron said that it was the metallic accent of blood, the heat of someone’s breath on the nape of your neck, the smell of old sweat. Luna said that it was the unbearable heat of summer and silence that even the little insects didn’t dare to break. Harry said it was the metallic heat in the air after a curse had been cast, it was the burn on your skin as it touches very dry dirt, it was old wet wood and a hint of salt.

It was, as Malfoy would say, water that didn’t move. 

The interested party noticed this. Noticed that the ground floor was exuding the smell of tears and exhausted sweat, blood and bile and dirty clothes and a plate of food that nobody ate. It was the smell of death. Someone in there was dying or someone close to them had died.

The _fidelius_ wasn’t there so the interested party stepped closer, got right by the window, pressed a face (it had a face!) against the brick wall. Took a deep breath.

Hanging in shreds from the sharp blade of the wind was the Smell of Death. This wasn’t about dying. It was about being dead, about belonging to Death. It was the smell of dust in a closed space. It was naked bone. It was the taste of magnetism in the stars. It was the absence of time. It was illusion and reality hiding in a ritual. It was absence and presence at the same time.

The house smelled like that. The interested party confirmed that their interest was inside that house.

ooOoo

Malfoy was washing his hands before leaving. He never stayed for lunch or dinner when Harry invited him but he did accept all the food Harry offered him (“Steak and kidney pie? Really, Potter?” “Hey, it’s a traditional meal. There is power in traditions.”) It was yet another small mystery about Malfoy, like the cuffs of his trousers (he was walking _daily_ through a field, what was up with that?), or like the extreme flexibility of his work that he had so obnoxiously told Harry about. He was able to come in the middle of the day, but he also had a notebook with him and he scribbled in it whenever they had a free minute. (Two notebooks actually: a tiny one for small ideas like the one Harry used to carry around when he was an Auror, and a medium-sized one.)

They were all very interesting and intriguing traits, but right now Harry only cared about the teapot that graced Malfoy’s wrist.

“You are going to bore a hole in me, Potter.”

Maybe, but when Malfoy turned around, drying his hands on a hand towel, Harry was very obviously looking somewhere else, his nose buried in a thick book.

“Mmh? You were saying something Malfoy?” Harry rose his head and adjusted his glasses dainty and collected.

The book was upside down. He noticed Malfoy noticing it and fighting a smile. He wondered if Malfoy knew that he had done it on purpose, grabbing the book wrong just because it would be funnier.

What was this between them? What was this relationship of pulling and pushing? It was weird and liberating and he liked it.

“Why are you so tied in knots about my tattoo?” Malfoy said; there was no trace of discomfort in his voice. Just plain curiosity like Harry’s.

He could have asked, “Why are you so obsessed with this when it is the least important and revealing thing about me? Why are you not asking about my schedule, my work, my reluctance to stay beyond a certain hour, my accepting food but not clothes, my daily going through a meadow and getting grass stains on my shoes? Why? Why the tattoo and not the clothes that cover it? Clothes that are worn and plain and almost muggle.”

But he didn’t ask or imply any of this. These were all thoughts in Harry’s head, except the first one. Harry didn’t think the tattoo was the least important and revealing trait of Malfoy. Everything else Harry had noticed could be found out or deduced, but the tattoo spoke of something more personal: a reflection and a decision. Everything else was like the symptom of a condition, a consequence of a certain state (perhaps Malfoy lived somewhere with a big garden). The tattoo, however, answered only to Malfoy and was a state in itself.

“Because… teapot,” said Harry.

“How you don’t have a successful career in politics, I will never know.”

How didn’t Malfoy have one? How wasn’t he a lawyer at the very least? Harry would know if he were a lawyer. He would have seen him at some point in the Wizengamot.

“Don’t,” he begged. He needed time to order his words. His thoughts were multiple and quick and very often brilliant. But Harry needed time to line up his words in order and make them mean what he wanted them to mean.

“Because you have a teapot tattooed,” he said at last, like extracting a stake from his side, slow and careful not to do more damage to the abused flesh, with a hand that was firm only by force of will. “Because a teapot is a household object, a _common_ object. It is ordinary. Because people don’t get tattoos often. Well, muggles do but wizards are more reluctant and when they get one it’s always flashy and symbolic. They get dragons and hippogriffs. They get a lion with wings and an eagle with three heads. You… have a teapot.”

Malfoy was watching Harry with his head tilted sideways and a soft wondering expression. The young blasé man who kept being surprised by the unchecked disaster that was Harry Potter.

“I just like their shape,” he said. His voice was open and firm and easy, as if revealing this little oddity were something tremendously easy for him. As if he were lying. But his eyes were something else. They were closer than Harry had ever seen them but guarded too, as if wondering if it was wise to show this much vulnerability.

Harry was a man who studied people’s cuffs and judged them accordingly. He wasn’t about to say anything about the aesthetic appeal of a teapot’s shape.

Besides, that wasn’t it. What Malfoy had said was something else. He had said that there was something small and common that he liked and that he had put it on his skin.

Malfoy left soon after that, a bag with two poked-at but uneaten steak-and-kidney pies with him. Harry watched him go with the feeling of having just run a race, having done something taxing and exhilarating.

He was just crossing the door when, on impulse, Harry called after him.

“Tomorrow I’m asking you about the plumes of steam!” he pointed at his left arm, near the elbow.

Malfoy let a short laugh even as he rolled his eyes. He gave two quick steps back and disapparated right away, right on the border between steps and street.

ooOoo

If someone or something had been there across the street before number 12 Grimmauld Place, if there had been some kind of entity, some conscience, if there had been an interested party watching the house, it would have seen a blond(e) and long-haired figure exiting the house. Winter clothes don’t help much in establishing identity, let alone gender.

They would had seen a figure like the one in Harry’s painting, someone with a nimble foot and a mane of spun light.

If there had been someone there, that’s what they would have seen.

But if you had asked any of the neighbours on the street or the chilled Londoners hurrying along if there had been someone there at any point during the day they would have said no. No, they hadn’t seen anyone.

One or two might have taken a second to answer, a second for a fleeting image of a dark figure to vanish from their minds.

ooOoo

“Are you going to tell us to be ‘always prepared?’” asked Fred with a pout and his arms crossed over his chest. He couldn’t hold the pose for long because he began to cough, long and deep and wet as if he were hacking up pieces of his lungs.

Harry passed him a glass of water. He didn’t have to say anything. He understood why having a wand was important but casting theory was _his_ area of expertise. Sure, he knew _a lot_ about Defence Against the Dark Arts, a big fat lot. But DADA was just two areas: a) Identifying the Threat and b) Answering Appropriately. Casting while your body was shaking and you couldn’t get the words out was not an appropriate response even when you had the right spell in mind.

“Isn’t asking us to cast non-verbally a bit too much?” asked Regulus. He was in one of those rare moments in which he had no fever, no shadows of a headache _and_ he hadn’t had a seizure in more than ten hours. He was the peak of health. He even had a slice of toast nearby. He wasn’t eating it, but he had it around as if he might.

Harry shrugged and tilted his head. It might be too much, but he wasn’t asking them to cast non-verbally, he was asking them to practice with some muggle pens and when they managed to get the moves and the words right ten times in a row then maybe he would let them use a real wand.

Harry was accused of being extremely stern and rigorous. No one had ever been this inflexible. Not even Moody. Not even Sisyphus Gale who was the duelling instructor of the good families and later of the Death Eaters. The man who had taken the raw rock that was Bellatrix Lestrange and cut her and beat her until she became a diamond. The man who had made Severus Snape a slippery bastard impossible to pin down with a spell. The man who had made Travers and Yaxley wizards to be feared and dreaded, unstoppable and devastating.

“Sisyphus Gale,” Harry repeated in a similar tone to how he spoke to Malfoy, light and confident. “Shall I tell you how he died?”

Fred had barely heard of the guy and he still looked surprised. Regulus looked surprised and raw, as if his heart needed time to decide if he was happy at hearing the news or upset because it was another reminder of the years that had passed.

“You killed him,” Fred said flatly and a touch reproachful. Harry had been almost eighteen when Fred died but Fred had also been two whole years older than Harry. Fred’s baby brother was still a baby hence his brother’s baby friends were babies too. Harry might be a hunk who shaved now, he didn’t fool Fred. There was still a tiny orphan in too-big clothes inside the disguise.

Regulus had turned to look at Harry, waiting for confirmation. He had known Sisyphus Gale well. Had been his student.

“Nah,” Harry said, hiding a smile in his voice. “It was Ron.”

“WHAT?” 

“Which one is Ron?” whispered Regulus. Without the added advantage of seeing the Weasley siblings in the flesh it was hard to keep them apart. “The curse breaker?”

“Almost. That is Bill, the eldest. Ron is the youngest, barring Ginny. He is good at charms and recovering from hexes as if they were nothing.”

Regulus was moving his lips in silence as Harry spoke and looking at the fingers of his left hand.

“The friend?”

“Yes, my best mate.”

“That you are not currently speaking with.”

“He needs time to deal with some issues. He is still a great friend.” A troll head at times, sure, but a great friend and Harry wouldn’t let anyone say another word about it. “He sacrificed his life for Hermione and me when we were eleven. He didn’t die, obviously, but he could have. We didn’t know what would happen.” Somehow, it still didn’t feel enough explanation of Ron’s virtues. Perhaps because risking his life for someone else was a very common occurrence for Harry. “And he once threw a crocodile heart at Malfoy and got detention in my place.”

Regulus nodded in understanding. In the background Fred was still demanding an explanation as to _why_ his younger brother who was practically a _toddler_ had faced the Master of Wands. He got so worked up he began to cough blood.

“The key is the ceiling rebound,” Regulus said and at Harry’s befuddled expression he clarified. “When you want to throw something in class and avoid detention. You throw it at the ceiling at an angle. It will fall on that person but it won’t be obvious that it was you.”

“I don’t think it would have mattered,” Harry said, although he liked the idea very much. “It was in Potions. Snape always gave us detention.”

“But WHY— ?” managed Fred, between coughs.

“Because he was a Death Eater, Fred. And Ron was an Auror for three years.”

“He quit? Thank Merlin.”

Harry though it best to direct the conversation away from the motives that had led Ron to quit, because unlike Harry’s they had less to do with ethics and disenchantment with the system and a lot more with having to fight his way out of the throat of a monster before the acids in the stomach digested him.

Talk about non-verbal casting then.

“And how was Sisyphus Gale defeated?” Regulus was leaning forward, eyes alight, but his voice was a soft as always. Loud or low Regulus always spoke like the stroke of velvet.

“He had the sun behind him so he thought that Ron wouldn’t cast blindly.”

Harry was presented with equal looks of confusion and incredulity.

“You have to use all your senses,” Harry explained. “You can’t depend on your eyes alone.”

Ron Weasley had casted at a target he couldn’t see and he had hit his mark precisely because he and Harry had trained for that. Of course they were in a minority and most wizards couldn’t fathom the idea of casting at something unseen. One of Dean’s sisters, the kindergarten teacher, said that wizards hadn’t reached the object permanence stage but of course all of Dean’s sisters were biased against wizards for some reason.

(And if Seamus Finnigan didn’t have an important realization about himself soon, he was going to be hunted down by four very angry young women.)

If they were honest about it, truly honest, honest and bare like a bone, with no space for bragging or humbling, the truth was that both Harry and Ron were the best Aurors the Ministry had seen in years. Yes, better than the members of the Order of the Phoenix (original and re-founded). They were _good_.

And, ironically, they were both out.

ooOoo

It was the end of the day although the sun had long since set. Well past dinner time; it was around that time when people wonder whether they are going to have a snack or just go to bed.

The interested party was still there, watching, waiting. It had circled the house three times. One to get all the whiffs of death, one to trace the path of the Smell of Death, and one more just to check the house, its windows and doors.

Now it waited.

Sometime around nine a figure apparated before the steps of the house. A figure with a long mane that was like spun light, climbing the steps with quick light feet, three little leaps. Then a knock on the door using the knocker in the shape of a sea monster.

Usually when a door opens at night it makes a big rectangle of light in the street, like a cutout of the darkness, but this time barely any light spilled out and it was soft and diffuse rather than sharp and intense.

The interested party got closer.

“Hello, Luna,” it heard, “come on in.”

The door closed, and it felt as if the street had more light now, the light of the lamp posts and the light of the city bouncing off the other buildings.

The interested party stayed one more hour before departing. It had been a very good day. A lot had been learned.

And the interested party liked knowing things.

ooOoo

“Go to bed, Harry,” Luna said. She would spend the night in the living room so Harry could get six hours of sleep upstairs. She still wasn’t the best nurse, she got very upset when they had an attack, but she had learned what to do in each case even when all they could do was grab their hand and wait.

“Yeah, yeah, go to bed Harry. Good night, Potter,” Regulus and Fred said at the same time. Luna was _fun_. Luna was like the extremely cool and understanding aunt everybody wanted to have. Harry was a spoilsport who still didn’t let them try a wand yet.

They waved at him, like children waving at their parents and waiting for them to just _go_ so they can go inside and play with the sitter.

“You too,” Luna added, turning to them. Luna was fun but she had lost her mother when she was nine and her father was a disaster of monumental proportions. If she wanted some kind of structure in her life she had to create it herself and she had done just that. Plus she took care of animals and other magical creatures, which might sound fun and carefree and whimsical. Seeing her barefoot in summer might give a bucolic impression like those pictures of shepherdess dressed in white and pink with flowers in their hair.

But animal caring was that, _caring_, and there was no space for carefree attitudes. It meant feeding everyone at the proper time and wrestling a thestral foal to the ground so you could apply ointment to their ears. It meant holding open the jaws of a monster so you could remove something tangled in their fangs.

So they all went to bed, as they should, and Regulus got a headache at half past four in the morning and Fred woke up bleeding from his nose and ears but otherwise they did all right.

ooOoo

There was a ramshackle wooden fence around the garden that surrounded Luna’s cottage. More like an attempt at a fence than a real one. There was also a barn behind that was used for refuge against the weather more than to keep the animals penned. For the most part Luna let the animals roam free around the fields and the little forest nearby. There were enough charms laid to stop muggles from coming in or the animals getting out and she had also hung some signs around the perimeter. It should be reasonably safe both for her animals and for the most unobservant and headstrong wizards resolved to take a walk across the field.

Besides, this was Luna, not Hagrid. She didn’t have animals that fed on humans around.

She apparated into the garden at sunrise. She went in the cottage to drop her things and quickly came out. She had already had breakfast and this was a normal time to be up for her. She liked how the world went from dark blue to grey and pink and a very light yellow.

She went to the barn to check on the animals and let them out. It was twenty minutes before she came back. The thestrals had been unusually affectionate, rubbing their heads against her chest and her belly.

There was someone in the garden when she came back.

She went inside and stayed in the cottage another twenty minutes, tending to the animals there. Meanwhile someone went around the cottage, circling it three times.

It was very safe. Lupin had made sure that the wolf couldn’t escape _and_ that no one could release it. (He had been used like a weapon before and it terrified him.) The cottage didn’t look like much, but it was safe. It wasn’t well protected against the cold and Luna could be heard singing a sea song when nothing of what went on in number 12 Grimmauld Place could be heard, but it was safe.

There were six feeding troughs in the space between the house and the barn being thoroughly scrubbed with enchanted brushes. The doors to the barn were wide open. Someone came closer to them, looked at the three stalls on one end (two closed and one open), at the tools hanging from the wall to the left of the doors. Someone came inside.

Someone waited for Luna to come out from the safe little cottage. Someone was thinking of being known to her, just for a bit. Knowledge was an exchange. Luna would learn of someone, briefly, and someone would learn everything she knew about the Death residing in Grimmauld Place. It would be quick and she wouldn’t have to suffer if she behaved.

There was a— a screech. Actually more of a raspy guttural hiss. If the gears of a machine had a voice it would be like this, low but strong and interrupted like the teeth of the gear. It was not a pretty sound to hear. There was also the sound of someone or something jumping from the rafters, the sound of something cutting the wind very quickly.

A beak that can easily cut through bones doesn’t make a very distinctive sound. A pair of red eyes with white pupils doesn’t make a sound whatsoever. The weird raspy hiss was more characteristic.

Someone got out of the barn with their heart, if they had a heart, beating madly in their throat. Someone was being chased out of the barn not by a barn owl but by a purple vulture with poor social skills and a beak that could crack a skull open. Everybody is very brave and very powerful until a wild animal chases them.

Luna didn’t have animals that fed on humans like giant spiders or blast-ended skrewts. That didn’t mean that the animals that she had couldn’t kill someone if provoked. They could. But that was true of many creatures, even small ones.

The vulture kept hissing threateningly. It hopped to the door of the barn and opened its wings fully, almost spanning the whole door. It extended its whole neck up and reared its head back a bit, as if it were going to leap forward and attack. It let out another grunted hiss.

“Oh, are you enjoying the sun?” said Luna when she came out of the house and saw the purple vulture still standing by the door, wings spread. The vulture hissed and grunted twice while Luna went to check if the troughs were clean.

Someone gave a small step back.

Satisfied with the state of the troughs Luna took them inside the barn. Then she began to gather the thestral dung and put it in buckets. It was very boring to watch.

The purple vulture hopped twice as Luna exited the barn, wings still spread to their full span. Its eyes were still red, its pupils white, its beak strong and curved so it could tear bone apart.

Luna took something from her pocket and threw it. The vulture snatched it in the air. Someone could hear a satisfied crunch and a happy gurgle. Then Luna grabbed a basket and went to the area between the barn and the grass field. A place that was nothing. Not a field, not a path, not a garden. Just a small expanse of land full of prickly hostile shrubbery. Not even the interesting kind that grew edible berries.

She took a pair of metal gloves from the basket, lined with wool on the inside, and began to pick something from the shrubs. It was winter, though. Well, winter wasn’t until the 21st of December, but it _felt_ like winter, it was November and it was cold and the days were short. Nothing worthwhile grew in those months.

She seemed to be picking feathers or strands of animal hair that were tangled in the thorns. It looked like a stupid task. Her breath was misting in the air and her ears and nose were red and she was picking gossamer.

At last the vulture retreated back to the barn. The sound it made as it flapped its wings and got up in the rafters was like a big rock hitting a tree.

The way was clear. Someone could go down the path Luna had taken. Someone could reach the barren shrubbery without coming close to the vulture.

It was very quiet. It seemed very quiet to someone used to the city buzz. Someone made sure that their steps didn’t make any sound as they went past the barn.

Someone had had a big scare already with the bloody vulture. Someone was used to not being noticed and put a lot of effort in being absent from people’s minds. Any creature that seemed to perceive their presence was a fright. Someone was only noticeable when someone wanted to be noticed.

Someone understood the devastating power of language and did everything to stay away from it. Someone didn’t want to be spoken at or about. Someone had driven people mad so they wouldn’t be able to turn a thought into words. Someone had done that at least five times. Other times, someone had had to kill.

If someone had a heart, then that heart would have frozen in panic and stopped beating when the second scare came. A word! A word! Words were dangerous and cutting.

A word directed at someone.

“Hello?” Luna said, looking right at someone.

Someone had stood in the front garden unseen. It couldn’t be the magical barriers in the place because someone had crossed them unseen and unnoticed.

But someone had been harassed by a purple vulture, and now, this.

“Hello?” the girl said again. She had the basket in her hands and her wand was sticking out of it. How stupid and trusting, to part from her wand even for a second.

Someone gave a careful step to the left. The girl didn’t react, didn’t notice the movement. She was looking at the general area where someone stood, her head tilted slightly. If she wasn’t careful her own hair would get tangled in the prickly shrubs.

Someone was unseen then. Someone could walk right up to Luna’s face and she wouldn’t know.

A bit farther to the left, at the beginnings of the grass field, there were the remains of a rock wall. A line of white, about knee height. A place for spiders to nest and nothing else. Not even good enough to stop the shrubs from trying to colonize the field. That was up to Luna and a pair of enchanted shears in the spring months.

The thestrals were there. They had a big field of grass to roam in and two more next to that one, divided by a short rock fence that was nothing for a creature that could leap and fly. They had a small forest full of dark and interesting places. But they were all there, a herd of thirty individuals, adults and foals. They were all clustered together by the entrance of the field and the fallen rocks, looking down the path.

There was no doubt. No doubt whatsoever that they were staring right at someone. The girl might have picked up on what they were doing and looked in that direction. They were looking at— , at— , at someone who couldn’t be named.

Perhaps it shouldn’t be that surprising. Someone had been dangerously naïve and confident.

What did people want? Someone could tell you, it was just two things. Two things and nothing else. People wanted to have power and people wanted to avoid death. There were others, stupid people, lying people, who said they didn’t want that. People who said love was more important. People who gave back the most powerful wand. People who refused to step aside and save their lives to protect their infant son. People who were _wrong_, just wrong and bound to fail. People who should be pushed aside as soon as possible. There were only two possible things that one could want: To have a power and to escape death.

Someone had had success in both, but more so in the second. Someone had lived a lot and that was the end all. Giraud, Forge-Kaylock, Grindelwald, Dumbledore, Voldemort. All were very powerful and all were dead. Only someone remained, silent and eternal. Perhaps not as powerful as them, not overtly, but a true conqueror of death.

Should it be so strange then that the steeds of Death recognized it? That they would show homage, even? Someone was Death’s consort and liege.

But lately Death had cheated. Death had tried to dupe someone, to grant her favours to somebody else. Death was a quim.

Although it might be a gift too. An offering. _Take this and use it_. Once someone got a closer view of the treasure hidden in Grimmauld Place, they would better know what to do with it. Whether to take it and use it and wear it, or end it.

The leader of the herd had left the field and was slowly descending the path. A mare with midnight eyes, her hooves were lighter than those of a common horse. They made a softer sound as she walked, like an afterthought to the motion.

The mare came to a stop in front of the girl. Her body between her and someone, her head and her midnight eyes and her mouth with blood-stained teeth were all pointed at someone who couldn’t be named.

Someone took a step forward. Someone was a conqueror of Death. Someone knew how to evade Death and harness her power. Someone was owed deference and service. The only one that Death couldn’t take. The one who _took_ Death.

The mare stomped her front legs, hard, deliberately, ears back and tail swishing. She grunted. It was like the sound of an axe dragged over a rock. There was a little bit of white around the midnight eyes.

Someone gave two steps back before beginning to understand what had happened. Threat and rejection.

“Did something upset you, Elisena?” said the girl, stupid girl, bitch, mutt, runt.

Someone left, watched by the thestral, down the garden and outside the derelict fence.

The place was too well protected. This wouldn’t be the route to Grimmauld Place.

ooOoo

“And since they were present at Nanjing during the Obscurus Storm _and_ they sunk the Great Kataline’s chariot, if anyone mentions an Asian monster the first word that comes to mind is a _yao_,” Regulus was ardently saying, one hand raised for emphasis. Harry grabbed said hand by the wrist and kept it up so he could scrub under the arm and on Regulus’ side. 

Regulus wriggled and grabbed the sponge from Harry. “So no reasonable person could answer _oni_,” he added. Although it was unnecessary because it had been made abundantly clear that “oni” was the wrong answer even if the crossword considered it right.

Regulus had been so incensed when the crossword was done and it became evident that the answer was “oni” and nothing else, that Harry had taken him and Fred upstairs without argument and drawn them a bath. He was regretting not having gotten a wider variety of soaps. Something with an extravagant name and a tangerine trace. Instead all he had was the lavender soap and the citrus shampoo.

Fred was happy enough because the soap created a nice lather. He was back at building himself a beard and, for some reason, nipple warmers.

And yet, Harry had the impression that Regulus was the profoundly strange one. Not just deeply, no, although deep is a synonymous of profound. Regulus was _profoundly_ strange and that meant something more, something all-encompassing and overpowering. Regulus was strange in a truthful way.

“If Sirius hadn’t been there, you would have been the rebel son, wouldn’t you?” Harry didn’t know what made him say that. He knew why he thought that, but not what made him speak when it wasn’t the polite thing to do. Perhaps because the bathroom invited a certain intimacy, because it felt like a place away from the world, a place of white mist and just an orange brushstroke.

Regulus took a second to answer. He glanced down at the silver mark on his forearm, barely visible under the bathroom light.

“I think _I_ was the rebel son,” he said. His voice was a scarf of the best merino wool, warm and smooth. “Who did Sirius betray after all? No one! And who did I betray? Voldemort!”

“George and I were the rebels of the family” Fred had half a lather brassiere on. He was having some trouble with the strings. “It wasn’t easy because Charlie was the rebel before us.”

“I thought Bill?” Harry’s knees were starting to protest so he sat on the floor, his side against the bathtub and a hand daintily touching the warm water. “He has long hair and an earring.”

“Bill was the rebel before Charlie.” The brassiere was slowly drifting down Fred’s chest and if you followed the movement with your eyes you couldn’t help seeing how thin Fred was. “Charlie rejected a successful career in Quidditch to go work with dragons.”

“And what did you do?” asked Regulus with interest. He was very thin, too, but he looked… happy, perhaps. He was warm and clean and comfortable. There wasn’t the usual strain of pain in his eyes.

“We dropped out of school.” Fred’s hand was wrinkly enough. Harry was going to rinse them and get them out in a minute. “And we only took three OWLs each.”

Regulus gave a dramatic and long gasp. “You fiend! Your poor Mother.”

ooOoo

“Jenny is the girlfriend, right? And the youngest.”

Harry had got them dry and dressed and was taking both of them back down to the living room. There had been something about both Regulus and Fred when he got them out of the bathtub, a slowness, that made Harry fear that they would have an attack any minute. Or maybe not even that, a simple sneeze would do it.

Harry had told Fred to sit tight and he was now taking Regulus down in his arms. Who would have thought it? Harry the tiny orphan was well fed and strong enough to carry someone in his arms. _And_ he had money. What a wonderful life.

“Ginny?” he said as he looked past Regulus’ head to make sure he didn’t miss a step. “She is the youngest of the Weasleys and the only girl.”

“And the girlfriend.”

Three more steps and he would be in the dark corridor. The dark cluttered corridor so Harry was taking them all the way to their sofas.

“She is a bit more than that,” he said as his feet touched the floor. The worst had passed. “She is a great duellist and a successful Quidditch player and a very good friend.”

“Ah.”

Regulus didn’t say anything else, but the “ah” was enough. A short but firm stroke of velvet.

“So why aren’t you two together if she is so great?”

Harry laid him down on the sofa. He stroked his hair once, comforting and companionable. A physical symbol of closeness and care, of Harry being there to help.

“Two minutes,” he said, and he went to get Fred. He was more difficult to carry because he was a broad, stocky young man. Just as Ron seemed to be all legs and a long nose, the twins were backs and shoulders. Fred was losing weight quickly, but not so quick that he stopped being heavy. He was a naturally heavy and muscular guy just like Malfoy was slim. Harry wouldn’t have any trouble carrying Malfoy anywhere.

Uh. What a funny image. Harry didn’t know where that came from.

He put Fred down on his sofa and threw a blanket over him. Fred immediately kicked it away, turned on his side and began to shiver, a grimace of pain in his face. He had been very quiet while Harry got him downstairs.

It couldn’t be considered a seizure exactly because it wasn’t big and terrifying. Fred just shook for a while, whimpering, and kicked the armrest of the sofa. He had tears in his eyes and his gaze was lost but he didn’t look completely out. It lasted fifteen minutes.

Harry felt as tired as Fred looked. The good news was that when it passed Fred lifted an arm and announced that he felt like eating a ham and cheese sandwich.

“Oh, I could kiss you,” Harry said, touching gently his arm and getting up to go get Fred his sandwich. Kreacher was quicker, already going through the living room door. That was something too, how good Kreacher was being, how cooperative. Of course house elves were born to serve and all that but Harry had ended up with two very contrarian house elves so he didn’t know. Dobby went against his master’s orders when he could and later was happy to demand a salary from Dumbledore. Kreacher gave _awful_ service to those he didn’t like. He was his own individual and he was now choosing to help even when this didn’t affect Regulus directly or indirectly. It was Fred.

“Is that why you aren’t with the girl anymore?” purred Regulus.

Fred tried to wriggle his eyebrows but he wasn’t able to do it very well, so he had to purse his lips and bat his lashes instead. Harry thought of kissing him just to show him how far he could take a joke.

Ah, to hell with it, Harry bent down and smacked a noisy kiss on the side of Fred’s mouth. Regulus let out a delighted laugh that had almost no velvet in it and it was just clear water and glass. So did Fred, a laugh that was clean and white and childish, a laugh that for a minute had nothing to do with the war or with death.

“Oh, no, I can’t,” Fred was saying, “Ginny will never forgive me.”

Back to her again and Regulus had crossed his hands over his chest and was looking at Harry with a dangerous smile.

“Ginny is a wonderful girl,” he said that first because he wanted to make it clear. Ginny was fantastic. “We didn’t break up, we just… stopped. We had no time and no spark. Ah! Kreacher!”

“Don’t use that to change the topic,” Regulus said firmly as Kreacher crossed the room holding a plate with a sandwich. The pitter-patter of his feet was almost inaudible.

“Yeh, goh on.” Fred had grabbed the sandwich and given it a huge bite. He was chewing. Harry might have to kiss him again.

There really wasn’t much to say. They had tried, it didn’t work. It was everyone else who had a problem and kept looking for a reason.

“So you didn’t like someone else,” said Regulus.

“What? No! I would never cheat!”

“It doesn’t have to be cheating,” Regulus said amenably, opening his hands. “Just realising you like someone and hoping to be with them after you break up.”

“Yes, well, that is not the case. A relationship can die without anyone else interfering,” Harry bit out because _really_. As if he would look at anyone while dating someone. Harry was an honourable person and he also had very little idea of how feelings can sneak on you and slap you silly when you aren’t looking. Harry had had to make some very difficult decisions in his short life and he tended to see everything that way. It was your decision to resist or to follow the easy way, it was your decision to fight, to sacrifice yourself, and it was your decision to pursue someone.

Harry liked Ginny an awful lot but it might be that he had never been in love. He had no experience of the desperate agony that love can be.

Regulus sniffed. “I just thought. The young Lovegood girl spends an awful lot of time here.”

“Taking care of you!” Harry was starting to climb his way towards incensed. What the hell was this?

“Nevertheless.” Regulus waved his hand dismissively.

And oh, Oh! He saw it now. Damned Slytherins and their damned ways and not being able to ask a direct question. They would ask everything else except what they wanted to know.

“Do you want to ask if I am dating Luna?”

Regulus was studying his fingernails. “Me? I don’t care at all.”

“I sink ’e ’s lying.” Fred was still eating his sandwich, like a champ.

“So you don’t want me to tell you if Luna is seeing someone.”

“Miss Lovegood is free to do whatever she wants and I have no opinion whatsoever about her.”

“Very well,” Harry said and dropped the topic because that was what Regulus deserved.

ooOoo

Malfoy had to wait six minutes by the door, knocking intermittently, before hearing a crash and a yelp. Something ought to be said about Malfoy’s courage because he was not presented with a welcoming image when the door finally opened. Harry had an arm on the door handle and was bending down to rub his injured leg so he looked like a werewolf mid transformation. A dishevelled cannibalistic werewolf given the state of his hair (as bad a usual) and the blood covering his hands and arms (unusual, although not very).

He was very nicely dressed, though. A rich blue that complemented his skin tone and silver accents on his waistcoat and the trim of his jacket.

“Were you rude to a fairy in disguise, Potter?”

“I am a fucking model of civility,” Harry said, still crouching. “Please, come on in.”

Malfoy pushed away a couple of bottles with his foot and stepped over a box that had turned over. He looked meaningfully at Harry but said nothing, obviously tired of reminding him to clear the foyer.

There was something he wasn’t saying, something Malfoy hadn’t said. It had only occurred to Harry now as he hurried to get the door and knocked over the firecrackers and a flowerpot. Harry could just vanish the clutter. The moment he had brought it home it had served its purpose and Harry could just make it disappear, erase it.

But he didn’t, of course he didn’t, because Harry was poor. He was filthy rich but he still thought like someone who was poor. He might think about throwing money at a problem until it was fixed, hence why he had offered to pay Malfoy for his help, but Harry just couldn’t fathom throwing money at nothing. Buying something and then vanishing it was wrong. You had to find a use it for it or save it for some other time but you didn’t just throw stuff away.

He still had some of his old clothes. Dudley’s clothes. He didn’t wear them of course; these days Harry was impeccably dressed (at least when he exited his bedroom he was), but he didn’t throw the old clothes away, because, well, they were still serviceable. So that explained why Harry was irritatingly and irrationally clinging to the stuff he had bought to cover his traces. It explained Harry. It didn’t explain Malfoy.

Malfoy had received care packages from his mother every single day of his first year in Hogwarts and weekly the rest of the time. He had had more than he could want and he had distributed it between his friends (acolytes) like a magnanimous bandit captain. But sometimes he hadn’t. Sometimes he had been unbearably snobbish. Harry remembered because it had shook him and Ron. He remembered seeing Malfoy across the Great Hall complaining that the latest pastry wasn’t the flavour he liked or that the card in the chocolate frog was a common one, and then taking his wand and vanishing it, just vanishing it. He remembered Goyle’s dejected expression as the pastry disappeared just as he was reaching for it.

Ron had concluded that Malfoy was just trying to show off that he had mastered the vanishing spell. Harry had wanted to believe it because even that example of pretentiousness was easier to understand than the idea that when Malfoy didn’t like something he vanished it without a second thought.

Of course the Patil twins were loaded with money and did similar things, too, so Harry thought that it was just one of those things that come naturally to born rich people. Just like the Weasleys were still stingy even when they were doing much better now. Hell, Percy had managed to save enough to buy a flat in prime Diagon Alley before turning thirty. Those were some money-saving skills.

There was a point. What was the point? Oh, right. Look it there, Malfoy _pointedly_ putting the box of firecrackers upright. Malfoy _pointedly_ looking at Harry because he hadn’t found a suitable place for them.

Malfoy didn’t think like a rich person anymore.

In any case, Harry hadn’t taken so long to open the door because the foyer was stuffed with things. If anything, he had crashed and hurt his leg because he had gone through it very quickly. It had taken long because Fred had started bleeding out of— well, out of everywhere.

“Gaaaark,” said Malfoy as he came into the living room.

Regulus and Fred had let out twin exclamations when they first saw the vibrant red between Fred’s legs. There was also a big stain on the sofa, dark and wet, and Fred had immediately gotten up, his instinct telling him not to stain things. This had made the blood go down quickly, a stream that touched his ankles and pooled on the floor.

Fred had looked so scared then. So scared and lost.

Harry had grabbed his hands and forced him to sit back down (“To Hell with the sofa, Fred. Sit down!”). When Fred opened his mouth to protest, a few puffs of blood had come out, quickly followed by tendrils from his nose. There had also been blood pooling in the shells of his ears.

The worst, however, and evidently Malfoy agreed with Harry here, was the blood coming out from Fred’s eyes. Seeing the white stained with red, the tracks on his face like tears of war.

Malfoy had put a hand on the wall, looking for support. It was an extravagant gesture for him when he had taken everything else with the barest hint of emotion. He turned to look at Harry with his mouth hanging open, lips shining and eyes full of colour despite being grey. Harry couldn’t do anything other than look back. He wondered what Malfoy was seeing in his face.

Malfoy shrugged his coat off (too thin for the current weather and, again, with mud specks on the bottom) and went to attend Fred. Most of the bleeding had stopped or trickled down to a very thin wisp by the time Harry felt like he could step away and get the door. All they had to do was wash the blood away.

“Mmh, I don’t want to be a bother, but—” Regulus was opening the jacket of his pyjamas for some reason and laying down on his side. Thirty seconds later he was having a seizure, almost shaking to the floor.

Yesterday had been so good. Yesterday they had barely felt ill and they had even been strong enough to practice with mock wands. They had had some trouble during the night, but so small that Harry had thought, maybe, maybe today after lunch and some more practice he would let them have real wands. It would boost their moods. 

Regulus took very long to come back from the seizure. He was slow and drowsy afterwards and both sides of his mouth were down. His grip was weak on both hands, although unequally so. He had a bit more strength on the left side. Fred was cold and drowsy, too, and although he had stopped bleeding there was still a small trickle of blood coming from his ear. Most of all, he was shaken, because for a minute there it had looked as if he would just bleed to death, as if he would just come apart and Harry would be left with a very dry and inconvenient body.

Malfoy had grabbed one of the few undamaged cushions and transformed it to make it big enough to hold both men. He had also grabbed the cushions and blankets, everything stained with blood, and taken them with quick strides to the kitchen. Kreacher hurriedly following his steps carrying Fred’s wet slippers.

“You have…” Harry pointed at Malfoy’s right arm when he returned to the living-room. There was some blood on the underside of the sleeve and on the cuff on his left wrist. There were also some speckles of black on Malfoy’s fingers and a big grey smudge on the outer side of his hand.

Malfoy looked down at the stains. He was wearing a blue sweater, possibly the same one Harry had seen before. It didn’t look like much, but they had just seen Fred drenched in blood head to toe. It was enough blood to ruin the garment. Blood was remarkably difficult to remove, even with magic.

“Just a minute,” Harry said. “Check on them, will you?”

Malfoy nodded and said “yes” or “of course” or something similar. Harry leaned down a bit as he left and put a warm hand on Kreacher’s shoulder, just for a second.

He came back down wearing a short green tunic over his shirt. He was thinking of just removing the sleeves of the blue jacket and turning it into a vest or something because it honestly looked like too much effort to have it cleaned. He also had two set of pyjamas with him, warm and extremely soft. (The main traits Harry had been after when he went shopping; pattern, colour and elegance weren’t even considered.)

The pyjamas were for Regulus and Fred, evidently. But since both of them were falling asleep the clothes were left on a nearby table and they just threw an extra blanket over them.

Fred was so pale.

“Here,” Harry said, turning to Malfoy. He had something that was a rich dense black in his hands. “If you want to wash your sweater now. Or even if you don’t want to. Blood can be a pain to get rid off. The people from Supplies complained so much because we went through lots of uniforms. I owe you a sweater. Take it, it’s very nice.”

Fortunately Malfoy put a hand over the proffered sweater and Harry shut up before he began talking about merino wool and how the colour didn’t suit him and if Malfoy didn’t like it he could give him a different one.

“You don’t, um, I can, I can turn around if you don’t want me to see your tattoo while you put it on.”

“Potter.”

“Yes, I know. I should shut up.”

Malfoy’s smile was broad and open. It even reached his eyes, crinkling the skin around them. He put the sweater on a bracket (the house was full of them, only the corridor had the walls bare) and began to take the blue one off.

Harry didn’t know where to look. Well, he knew _where_ he wanted to look, but he didn’t know if he should or if he should at least attempt to be less obvious. Malfoy stopped for a second after he got the sweater over his head and looked at him with brows raised.

He got the right arm first.

Harry laughed, a short and ugly snort, but a laugh nonetheless and he was taking it. Even if it came from bloody Draco Malfoy teasing him, Harry needed that laugh.

Malfoy took his other arm, folded the blue sweater and grabbed the other one. Not hurried, not slow. Just going through the motions naturally.

The tattoo went all the way from the wrist to the shoulder where it burrowed under Malfoy’s white plain t-shirt. It was— oh, Harry couldn’t see it all at once and it was frustrating. It was beautiful. It was like a poem in ink.

Harry hadn’t seen that many tattoos, not on wizards at least. But the ones he had seen, on muggles and wizards alike, felt a bit disconnected. A collection of images on flesh like the stamps on an action report, with little thought to how they went together or how they would look as the muscle moved. They were brands to remember different events that happened to be on the same individual almost by chance.

Malfoy’s was different. Malfoy’s was a single piece made of a multitude of smaller images. Harry was slowly developing an eye for art and he could see the hand of an artist there, of someone who understood composition and rhythm.

The steam of the teapot rose up the arm and opened like a flower to reveal a coloured painting. Harry could barely look at it, though, interesting as it was, because all of his attention was focussed on the forearm and the place of Voldemort’s brand.

It was still there. Malfoy could have easily covered it in the blue and grey of the steam. Harry knew that the mark had turned the silver white of a scar, it should have been easy. But he saw the head of the snake and the outline of the skull, not the stark black of the time when Voldemort was in power but a soft grey like a pencil drawing.

Harry was overloaded with thoughts. Harry judged people based on the state of their cuffs and, most annoyingly, was right pretty often. (“Don’t be absurd, Rhodey, that man is in bankruptcy he could not be at a party that costs sixty galleons the ticket. His cuffs are bleached and rethreaded.”) He had too much information to analyse. He didn’t even notice when Malfoy put the black sweater on, stretched it down, and pulled his ponytail out.

Because he wasn’t completely blind or as big an idiot as some people thought, he did notice that Malfoy looked pretty good. Hot, even, although everything about him was cold. He looked handsome and elegant and like a thousand galleons. He looked like he was supposed to look.

“All right, Potter.”

Harry blinked and startled. “All right. Yes. Umm, black isn’t really my colour. You keep it. Now, where is that list?”

The list of symptoms. Creased and soggy on the lower left corner and filled with different handwriting. Harry’s quick and clear and small so he could fit lots of information in little space and still be readable, Luna’s round and big and a bit loopy, and Malfoy’s too.

Much like his grass-stained cuffs and his blue sweater with pills and the general muggleness of his clothes, Malfoy’s handwriting didn’t suit him. Malfoy should write in a copperplate, something beautiful and elegant and utterly unreadable. Instead he used a hand similar to Harry’s, neat and clear.

Harry made a new mark under Regulus’ name on the row for “Seizures, small.” He also had to add an adjective to describe Fred’s bleeding. Something like “entire” or “total.”

He felt his mouth turn down. Things didn’t look good.

Malfoy was taking the band from his ponytail and combing his hair back quickly in a motion Harry had seen Ginny do plenty of times until she showed up one day with a pixie cut and the announcement that long hair was for Bill and Harry. The hands went back three times, quick, quick, quick, and then they tied the ponytail back and it was nice and smooth and didn’t have any strange lumps or loose strands.

Harry couldn’t even do it once. His hair was too tangled to get that smooth motion.

Malfoy asked to see the list and he stood there, very close to Harry, looking intently at the abused paper. His ponytail was over his shoulder, shining against the black wool of the sweater like a _lumos_ spell.

Harry made a sound like he had had a seizure of his own. At least he managed to keep that comment down. It was enough that later he threw himself into a long ramble about how he looked bad in black and how much better the uniforms of other schools were.

ooOoo

“They could argue that you are denying them adequate treatment,” Malfoy said. He was sitting in one of the armchairs, looking down at Regulus and Fred. He had accepted a cup of tea which Harry considered a success. “But then they would have to take them to St Mungo’s.”

There was no question about who they were.

“Maybe, maybe I should,” Harry said slowly. He was having another one of those terrible moments when he thought he might be wrong, he might be fatally wrong about everything and ruining Regulus and Fred’s only chance.

Malfoy took a while to answer. He had reached for the list of symptoms and was examining it again. His eyes were like a scalpel, like a knife, dissecting the words and forcing them open to show him the meaning he knew was hiding there.

“I don’t think they could do anything there other than upset them,” he said at last, looking up briefly from the list.

“They have doctors there.”

“They have mediwizards,” Malfoy corrected. “And they are only so good. Don’t you feel like we are missing something?”

“Constantly,” replied Harry quickly. He got up and leaned over the backrest of the armchair to get a look. It smelled like mint and apricots. He supposed from whatever Malfoy used to wash his hair.

Damn, and he still hadn’t gotten something that smelled good to use in the baths. Something with cherries and pomegranate and a ridiculous long name so Fred could make fun of it. None of that “sea mist” or “ocean storm” they always offered to men. No, something with summer in it so Regulus wouldn’t be reminded of the cave where he died.

“It feels… like there is a pattern I am not seeing.” Harry had to smile at the sting in Malfoy’s words, the frustration there. It also nudged at something in his head. He had so many thoughts he couldn’t develop one properly, other than the fact that despite the terrible symptoms they were incredible lucky because resurrections Did Not tend to go Well. 

But this prompted something forward. An interrupted idea he had had. He extended a hand and pointed at the list. It was there. Something he had noticed and thought…

Ah, it was gone.

“I can’t remember,” he said. “But there was… an inversion. I don’t know. I have read a lot about curses of reverse action, maybe I got them mixed up.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Malfoy said craning his neck back and looking at Harry seriously. The knife edge was gone from his eyes. They were just grey and normal like the English sky.

“The harder you try, the more difficult it becomes,” Harry summarised, unlike every other book that touched the matter and needed ten pages to say the same thing. “There is a proportionate increment in the response.”

“Oh. Like telling you ‘no’ and ‘leave me alone’?” Malfoy said, not even bothering to hide the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Exactly!” Harry answered with exaggerated excitement. “You have to agree I am much less of a pest now.”

Malfoy chortled like a child trying to tell a small lie. “It’s not fun if you agree.”

“I beg to differ, it is very fun,” he said, straightening.

It was as if he had dropped his worry at that, as if Malfoy’s surprised laughter had shaken it loose and it had fallen. He didn’t feel like he was ruining things anymore. He was doing whatever was best for Regulus and Fred.

ooOoo

Malfoy stayed most of the afternoon. They looked a bit more at the symptoms and concluded that they were not making things worse which was a big relief. If the more you tried to cheat Death the closer it took you to it, it might be that the more they tried to heal them the sicker Regulus and Fred became. It would make a lot of sense. It would also be terrible and disheartening and scary, but according to all Harry had read and what Malfoy knew, it would make sense.

It wasn’t the case. They were not killing them trying to save them. They might even be seeing a small improvement.

“I feel about the same,” Fred told them. He and Regulus had taken an hour-long nap before stirring. Harry immediately went to help him put on pyjamas and Fred complained that he didn’t like them, they had stripes, stripes were the worst, and that Malfoy looked much better.

“Don’t blame the clothes, it’s the hanger,” Malfoy had said. Regulus had agreed before either Fred or Harry could figure out what that meant. Slytherins had each other’s backs in questions of style.

No, really. Just for kicks Fred and Harry had asked what they thought of Slughorn’s checkered vests and they had both defended them without blinking even though they made the man look like some kind of bad optical illusion. Malfoy had even gone as far as saying that the lime green ankle boots were a bold yet worthy statement. Then he had looked all smug at Harry because at last he had found something that bugged him and made him sputter rather than agree happily.

“I don’t think the lime green ankle boots are so bad,” Fred confessed in a whisper. “I just feel like I should argue with them.”

One should always argue with Malfoy. It was fun.

As always, he refused to stay for dinner, but Harry was ready. Harry had a paper bag with dinner in it.

“Please?” he said, and then added in a whisper. “It will make Kreacher happy, just let him see you leave with it.”

It _would_ make Kreacher happy, but anyone eating his food made him happy. Kreacher was _fine_. He was tired and stressed, like everyone at the house, but he had his beloved master back and that was enough to make up for everything else, even for the distress at Regulus’ poor state of health. A sick but alive Regulus was much better than a dead one. A sick but alive Regulus could give small orders like “pass me the paper, please” or “well, yes, I suppose I could have a cup of tea.”

(Yeah, okay, that last one wasn’t even an order. That was Harry’s influence on Kreacher who had learned to do whatever he wanted.)

With every word Regulus uttered he moved away from those last words. Every small command put distance from that horrible one, from the order to leave and destroy the locket and take care and, with a broken sob brought by the Draught of Despair, to never let anyone order Kreacher to hurt himself. Those had been Regulus’ last words, to Kreacher but also in general. It was good to have new words. So Kreacher was in a state of tentative joy and relief and everything else mattered very little, including who did or did not accept the food he cooked.

Malfoy didn’t know that, though. Or maybe he did but he didn’t care. He just made this gesture Harry was becoming very familiar with: not even a roll of his eyes, it couldn’t be called that. It was a quick look upward, a token sign of the things Malfoy had to put up with, together with a smile that spoke of distance and amusement. At first Harry had thought that he did it on purpose, an overt sign that Malfoy did not want to do the thing and was only doing it because he was tired of arguing and this was quicker. But now he was beginning to think that Malfoy didn’t have full control over it, that he didn’t know about the small smile that escaped him, sometimes fond, sometimes knowing.

He did that, quick look up and amused smile, and grabbed the bag with the dinner. It shouldn’t be any different because he had taken food before; it was about the only thing he took with him. (Fred was bemused that anyone would reject an offering of firecrackers.) But it was different because before he had taken things that were going to spoil, things that had no use. Now he was taking something meant for him, he was sharing their food even if he didn’t stay for dinner.

Of course he could just drop it in a rubbish bin as soon as he left the house and nobody would know, but Harry doubted it. He had taken the other stuff because it would be a pity if they went to waste, he wasn’t going to throw this out.

What a stupid and hurtful thing pride was.

ooOoo

Harry went to sleep on the divan in the back of the living room. He had a pair of soft bottoms with snitches and a plain shirt with the Puddlemere United logo that Oliver had sent him at some point (between him, Ginny, and Ron’s undying love for the Chudley Cannons, Harry had _a lot_ of Quidditch paraphernalia. And now even Hermione had gotten into it and sent him stuff from Victor’s team).

The divan wasn’t very big but Harry had no trouble falling asleep. If anything the problem was staying asleep because the smallest noise stirred him awake thinking that surely Regulus or Fred was suffocating or silently bleeding to death. But he slept, they all slept calmly if not deeply. Harry slept long enough that he began to dream.

With the logic of dreams, at first Harry was sitting on the floor with Luna furiously drawing and colouring stars because for some reason the ceiling of Hogwarts’ Great Hall had gone blank and they had to fix it. Then he was back in his old bedroom in the tower except it was actually his current bedroom in Grimmauld Place and Malfoy was there saying that he should have made snowflakes instead of stars.

Even in the dream Harry was aware that it was a stupid argument, but argue is what they did about the merits of stars and snowflakes and it was very much like every other time they bantered.

And then it was not, because Harry was sitting down in an armchair, legs spread, and Malfoy was looking at him with amusement and doing that thing that wasn’t a proper roll of his eyes before kneeling between Harry’s legs.

Clothes are optional in dreams so Harry was able to feel immediately how soft Malfoy’s hair was, like a big piece of silk rubbing against his thigh, from down the knee up the inner thigh and to the groin. Malfoy’s eyes might have been pale blue in the dream, who knew? They weren’t important, not like his mouth, his lips, pink and shiny.

And soft.

And hot.

He went right to it, kissing Harry gently and mouthing him, letting out a hot breath over Harry’s hard cock before taking him whole. There was no gentle tease first, no kisses down his navel or up his thigh. Just his mouth, hot and soft, and the silk of his hair caressing Harry’s legs, something delicate and refined that became indecent and lewd as it rubbed against him.

Harry felt the heat build between his legs, as if Malfoy were breathing fire on him. The heat took over his stomach and climbed up his chest creating a delightful tension and also relaxing everything else, the awful worry that resided under his lungs.

He sighed and reached down to touch that silky hair, to kiss that mouth, to shove a hand under and explore and touch. Malfoy was silent, his eyes closed (they might be grey after all) and his mouth hanging open. He was pliable and sweet, kissing Harry everywhere, accepting his touch and his kisses too. He was on top of Harry, sitting astride and Harry was pushing up—

He was awake, sitting up on the divan.

Harry was sharply aware of the light sweat on his skin and the cool air in the room biting at his arms and the nape of his neck, the darkness of the room engulfing everything, the heat that was still between his legs, a demanding burn. He didn’t know what had woken him up. The darkness was mostly deep blue and grey. The curtains were drawn closed but a small candle still burned on the mantelpiece precisely so Harry could get up quickly without crashing against anything.

He blinked in confusion and reached for his glasses. There was still pleasure low in his belly asking to go further, to be allowed to grow; there was also that natural frustration at being interrupted, surprise from having that dream and, above all, like the darkness consuming the room, the alarm from waking up and not knowing why.

Harry grabbed his wand and got up. He licked his lips, sadly chasing the phantom feeling of another pair of lips against them.

Harry was… perplexed.

It was a strange time to come up with a dream like this, and also a strange person. Not because Malfoy was a man, that was fine, but because it was Malfoy. His old nemesis, Malfoy. Just… Harry was confused and didn’t know what to think.

But Malfoy was good-looking and Harry was seeing him daily _and _he wasn’t slowly wasting to death in a hopeless agony, so it shouldn’t be that shocking that he was showing up in Harry’s dreams. He was a good candidate if you thought about it. It was him or Luna.

Harry had learned about bisexuality in general and his own in particular in a funny and roundabout way. In a pub, too, which was a good place to learn about these things.

Harry had met up with Dean. Ron would come join them later and so would the ever-changing collection of Ron’s roommates which included Seamus Finnigan. Seamus was probably the only permanent one.

Dean and Seamus were best friends much like Harry and Ron were, which meant they loved each other but they also got on each other nerves and went through difficult times. This was one of those times for Dean and Seamus.

Harry asked about it innocently and kindly, wanting to help if he could. He asked because he liked both of them and also because he liked Dean a bit more. Dean had always supported him while Seamus did not during the Umbridge year (not that Harry held a grudge, but, well, it didn’t exactly help his trust issues). Dean had also offered to fake Vernon’s signature, which was awfully nice, and they had come across each other during the war, they had shared experiences then.

There was something there, a space of terrain, a bridge that helped conversation.

The problem, as Dean had put it, was that Seamus was a dense brick with his head shoved deep inside his ass.

“Okay,” Harry had said slowly. None of this was new. Seamus _was_ a dense brick with his head shoved deep inside his ass.

And Dean was running out of patience.

“Ah,” Harry had said. That was new, but understandable.

According to Dean, Seamus should just figure out he was bisexual already or step back. And here something went “ding” inside Harry’s head because that was a new word but also a word with a meaning he could guess easily. Especially because it was followed by a detailed explanation of how Dean had never had any doubts and figured out quickly he fancied both girls and boys. So now Harry knew about it too. You could like both, wasn’t that nice? There was a word for it and everything.

The problem was that Seamus was stuck on the fancying girls part, which, okay, _fine_, he could do whatever. Even if Seamus eventually realized he liked boys too, and it was so painfully obvious he did (it was! It was! Now that Harry knew that was an option it was kind of obvious, dear Merlin), still Seamus didn’t _have_ to go after Dean.

The problem was that Seamus _wanted_ Dean but he didn’t know that he wanted him so he didn’t take the step, and Dean was frustrated and tired of waiting.

“Oh, I see,” Harry had said. He was seeing many things in fact. He was a little bit sorry for Seamus too because he might be as hapless and oblivious as Harry. “That’s rough.”

“It’s not— ” Dean had cut himself off in frustration and taken a big gulp of his pint. “I can get over him. I know I will. He doesn’t owe me anything. He can like whoever he wants.” Another gulp. “It’s that he gets _jealous_.”

So Seamus didn’t know he wanted to kiss Dean but he knew very well that he didn’t want anyone else kissing Dean’s stupid and attractive face (Merlin, but Harry was an idiot and very happy to have learned that word). Seamus was acting like a jerk and there was no easy way to solve it because he didn’t know what was making him act this way.

“Have you tried telling him this?” Harry was holding his drink with both hands, letting the pent-up energy of surprise and realization go to his grasp of the jar. “You know, pureblood wizards sometimes don’t know about… stuff.” Which was true and a bit of an understatement because wizards knew a lot about magic and very little about the world in general.

Harry still thought that that was the path to take because _he_ hadn’t known that was a possibility. But Dean was hurt and angry and thought that Seamus should just have some sense knocked into him and stop chewing out Dean’s dates if he wasn’t going to present himself as an option.

So there wasn’t much Harry could do other than nod and drop some hints to Seamus when he saw him. It hadn’t even changed things for him personally, that realisation. He had had many other things going on in life, like his building disenchantment with his job and his dealing with trust issues.

And now he was dreaming about a boy and if Harry was confused it wasn’t because of the boy thing, or even about the boy in particular (well, a little bit) but because of the timing. Harry was constantly tired and stressed and worried and reading and thinking a lot about death. This was hardly the time to be assaulted with such earthy and pleasant dreams. He hardly had any erotic dreams when he had an actual girlfriend whom he saw once a week, he didn’t know why he would have them now.

(And if he was going to have them, could he be allowed to _finish_, please?)

But he couldn’t dedicate much time to think about it or what it meant that it was happening now and with Malfoy of all people because Harry must have woken up for some reason. He had to find that reason.

The room was pretty quiet. Both Regulus and Fred were breathing, Harry had checked that instinctively. He didn’t smell blood or piss or anything alarming. He lifted his wand and casted a soft _lumos_ so he could see without waking them. Fred had little droplets of sweat on his forehead, like a coronet made of pearls. His breathing was normal, perhaps a bit quick, but his hands were grabbing the blanket so hard his knuckles were white, like a drowning man clutching a piece of wood. Harry looked over at Regulus quickly and found that he had a deep frown and an anxious expression. His breathing was faint, almost as if he didn’t want someone to notice it.

Nightmares, then. Harry must have noticed them somehow and woken before any of them began to cry or scream.

He sat next to Fred and lightly touched his arm hoping that would be enough to comfort him and dispel the nightmare without waking him. They slept a lot but rarely got a good uninterrupted sleep so Harry was hesitant to wake them. Fred flinched at his touch and cried something that could be a whimper or a wail.

Harry removed his hand. “Fred,” he called softly, whishing his voice were as soft as the velvet in Regulus. “Fred, it’s all right. You are all right.” He looked over his shoulder and found that Regulus was burrowing deeply, the anxiety taking him over.

“Fred, you are fine,” He whispered again as he went to Regulus’ side. He pressed lightly on his shoulder. “Regulus, it’s all good.”

He ended up waking them. He knew it was the right thing to do because Regulus had tears in his eyes when he opened them and Fred was very quick to sit up.

“All right,” said Harry again. It was all he could say. The words didn’t matter as much as that he kept talking and grounded them to the moment with his voice. This time must had been very bad, however. They both had equal looks of misery on their faces and they were not looking at him or at each other. Harry got it. Sometimes the nightmare meant that the mere sight of another person was unbearable.

“All right,” Harry said again, more firmly. “Tea. Biscuits too, if you can stand them. And I am going to rise the lights a little bit.” Harry did just that, lighting a couple more candles with a tap of his wand. Kreacher was either fast asleep in his nest under Regulus’ sofa and Harry shouldn’t wake him, or he was doing something he was forbidden to do like polishing the bronze decorations on the balusters. Harry didn’t want to stress him out with yet another talk about duty and how caring about your own health is also a duty, Kreacher, for Merlin’s sake.

He went to get the tea himself, taking the stairs two at a time until halfway down he realized he could just apparate in the kitchen. He didn’t want to be away from the living room long. The light would help, it was white and orange and soft and should feel mellow and comforting, but Harry also knew that light brought new shadows. Well, of course it did, what a stupid thing to say. Light was good, is what he meant. But light was good only because it was the only alternative to darkness and darkness after a nightmare was very bad. Light hurt the eyes and made things look funny and brought a certain anguish with it.

Harry threw the cupboards open and tore into the biscuit box, not even bothering to find the little flap and just opening it like a mad squirrel. Kreacher was going to be very annoyed in the morning and rightly so, but for now Harry had a tea set ready in under two minutes, teapot and cups and biscuits and even the little spoons.

Again he only remembered that he could apparate when he was half up the stairs already and after he almost dropped a teapot full of boiling water over his head and he banged his elbow on one corner. Harry was a terrible wizard.

“Tea!” announced Harry as he entered.

“I don’t think I can take— ” Fred began to say in the dullest voice. Harry didn’t want to hear it ever again. Fred and George had been born with laughter in their mouths and there were certain inflections that just shouldn’t be made with their voices. A deadpan tone was allowed if directed towards a punch line, anger might be permitted, too, because the twins were very protective of their friends. Even a casual tone as they explained how a new gadget worked. Anything but that desolation that took over George after Fred died. Anything but that numbness in Fred.

“You don’t have to drink it,” snapped Harry, but in a good way. Like the fond snap of someone slapping the hand trying to grab a piece of cake before it’s time. “You just hold the teacup and let the warmth seep in.”

“We deal with things the traditional way,” offered Regulus softly. He had stopped looking at the blanket in his lap and had advanced to looking at the tea set. “Drinking tea and saying nothing about it until the bad feeling goes away.”

“What about the traditional downing of six pints, getting pissed and crying outside a pub?” Harry asked.

“Please. We are people of class, here.”

“Not me,” Harry said happily, as if he were bantering with Malfoy. Happy, too, because Regulus was slowly lifting his eyes and daring to look at him. “I am brash and lower class.”

“Me too!” Fred said as he accepted a teacup from Harry’s hands. Without realising, he looked both at Regulus and Harry. Once you made eye contact it was easier to keep doing it.

“No, you ain’t,” Harry said smoothly. “You have no muggles in the family.”

Regulus made something close to a chuckle, like a deep and raspy breath, and said “Evans” while Fred sputtered indignantly that he was perfectly plebeian.

All claims of worker status aside, they still went the middle to upper class way of sitting back and having a cup of tea. They had had a bit of banter though, a bit of something that went around the topic and would help them to eventually get to it, rather than ignoring anything bothersome whatsoever, as was the default strategy of both Aunt Petunia and Dear Mother Druella.

“I don’t usually dream of Voldemort,” Harry said. Someone had to go first. “I think I am supposed to have nightmares with him, but I don’t.”

They were looking at him now, both of them, pale faces and wide eyes, hands around the teacups. Harry leaned forward, to the little table where he had laid the tea set.

“Sugar, anyone? Two cubes?”

Regulus rolled his eyes and moved forward slowly, presenting his cup. “Two, please.” He leaned back in his seat with a soft smile. Two sugars and no milk, like a worker or a foreigner. Harry still remembered the time Aunt Petunia read in a magazine that proper posh people didn’t take any sugar in their tea so she banned it from the house. Uncle Vernon had a fit before the end of the second day and ate half a toothpaste tube.

(No, Harry didn’t know either.)

“I don’t dream of him either,” Regulus said. He looked very pleased to have his tea, although he still hadn’t tasted it. “I don’t know why. I was close to him and he was terrifying. Handsome like a devil, I will give you that. But terrifying.”

“He wasn’t as handsome when I met him,” noted Harry, although based on the memories he had seen of those who knew Tom Riddle, he wasn’t surprised by Regulus’ description.

Regulus tilted his head and shrugged. “That might have been better. There is something terrible in seeing someone beautiful bring so much evil. It makes you feel ugly and wrong for disliking him.” He turned to his teacup and took a big swallow that probably burned his mouth and tongue. “And his followers… I keep dreaming that they come after me. That they find out and come seeking vengeance.”

Harry didn’t dare saying anything. He supposed… If Regulus had ordered Kreacher to take him back after he switched the lockets he might have escaped alive. Harry didn’t dare to say that Regulus had probably found safety in death. 

“I run and run and they are always close, coming from every corridor and stairs.” Regulus’ breath was hitched. New tears were forming in his eyes.

It sounded so small. Just bad wizards chasing him, like they had chased Harry, like they had done with many others. It sounded small but Harry understood the terror that lay there. The dread that at the turn of the next corner there will be a wall, that there will be someone waiting there, that you will find yourself with no exit, no place to run and no room to fight.

“You know, people make fun of me because I use _expelliarmus_ a lot. But I think it helps.” Harry breathed in the steam of the tea. He didn’t feel like drinking it either, not for now, but merely having a cup with him was comforting.

No wonder Malfoy had it tattooed into his skin.

Regulus had a considering expression, which was miles better than the anguished expression he had a second ago.

“It almost feels like cheating,” Regulus said at last. “All wizards do is learn to duel and then you go and break the duel and turn it into what, a brawl?”

“Boy, I should have thought of that,” added Fred who had been busy adding milk and sugar in obscene quantities but still hadn’t managed more than a sip. “I was a Beater on the Quidditch team. I should have made them drop their wands and then beat them with a bat. George and I should have.”

That was an image, certainly. Old-fashioned fighting if there was any, so no complaints there from the traditionalist. And, in a classic brawl, Fred might not have succumbed to a stray curse. He might had gotten a bad hit to the head and died nevertheless, but if they had taken their wands Fred wouldn’t have been hit by a curse, that was true.

“Merlin, Death Eaters must really hate you,” said Regulus with admiration.

“Yes, they didn’t look too fondly on me. I wonder why,” Harry said in his usual blank and straight tone. 

Regulus answered quickly and amused. “Because you insult them.”

“Not really… I might have called Bellatrix a bitch, but nothing else.” As Harry had said to Malfoy, he was the fucking image of civility.

“Might had to do with killing their leader and all,” said Fred in a Fred voice with a Fred sarcasm and funny Fred tone. It was fantastic to hear him speak like this. The dull empty tone Fred had after his nightmares was a terror of its own.

Fred drank of his cup, slurping, and pointed at Harry. “Or his face.”

“No, no.” Regulus looked more lively, less agitated by his dream as he analysed why exactly Death Eaters would dislike Harry besides his involvement with Voldemort’s fall. “Because you do things differently and that’s an insult. You take wands out of a duel and when you _do_ duel you don’t follow the rules.”

“I do that,” Harry agreed. Oh, if Malfoy were here he would really enjoy the conversation. He would be irritated and annoyed, but he would also have a lot to contribute. It would be fun.

Of course if Malfoy were here Harry might be reminded of certain dreams. It would be embarrassing.

They all took a sip of their tea. Fred made a face and looked at his sadly. Given that he had put at least four sugar cubes and half the milk jug, sadness wasn’t the expression he should wear. Mild alarm, perhaps, but not sadness.

“I can still taste the mud,” he said, noticing their curious glances. “I dreamed that I fell in the lake and the water was dark and muddy and some grindylows were pushing me down. I couldn’t see anything and I was swallowing the muddy water and drowning. I, I can still feel it in my mouth, the bitter taste of mud. And in my body, I know they aren’t there but I can feel the marks of their fingers tearing flesh and pushing me down.”

Harry was surprised by the rich description because Fred didn’t seem the kind of person able to talk about their fears. Few people were, actually. In fact, Harry would say only Ron. Ron had the kind of nerve to be able to invoke his worst fears by talking about them. Most people just referred to them in vague terms, if at all.

Fred was taking slow deep breaths. He was trembling a little bit, just from thinking back to it.

“Did you…” Harry was having a thought. Something vague and elusive that couldn’t be put to words, not yet. Something that had poked his brain before and that Harry had lost. He felt that if he went headfirst towards it he would lose the thought again, so Harry had to be careful. Go slow and around until the thought was surrounded and couldn’t help but to show itself. “Did you ever train with a boggart in DADA? What did you do?”

Fred had fought a boggart, although not in DADA because the state of the subject at Hogwarts was ridiculous and the year he should have learned about them the teacher was Quirrell. Lupin had giving free lessons to the younger members of the Order during the holiday break, and that’s when Fred and George got a chance to face one.

(Yes, _that_ holiday break when Cedric Diggory had just died and nobody told Harry anything.)

Fred’s boggart, however, had taken the shape of an injured Ginny. Even then, with the war looming over them, neither he nor George had ever thought they would be separated. They had feared for others and for themselves but always thinking as a unit. They were a unit, in a way. Ron said that thankfully they never had a situation when it was needed, but George couldn’t cast a _patronus _anymore.

“But, do you know how to swim?” Harry asked, because he still had a thought and it was taking shape. He thought… He knew that Ginny didn’t know how to swim but Ron knew enough not to immediately sink down. There wasn’t a body of water around the Burrow where they could have learned easily, so it wasn’t impossible that Fred hadn’t learned.

It turned out that wasn’t easy and it wasn’t nearby; it was probably terribly dangerous and it was a wonder that no Weasley child had drowned; but there was a place down the road. A small river with a deep natural well and a very strong current. Ron and the twins had learned there, self-taught and reckless. Charlie had found them there once and spanked the three of them because the place had a strong undercurrent and any of them could have been swallowed down. Apparently people had drowned there before. 

A spanking from Charlie was hardly traumatic enough to bring those dreams, though.

“Did you ever have an incident there? A time when you dived and couldn’t get out?” Harry the ex-Auror asked.

“No.”

No.

Harry had it. It was on the tip of his fingertips. He put his cup back on the table and went to get a piece of parchment with trembling hands. He dropped the inkwell on the floor and merely flinched before grabbing a muggle pen. He had to write it now. He would clean the mess up later.

The list of symptoms had most of the times Regulus and Fred had woken up from a nightmare, but not all, and they had never written down the content of the nightmare because it wasn’t important. Except it was, it was. 

All right. He had it. Harry drew an arrow pointing at both of their names and then wrote “_Death!!”_ on top.

He did take the list of symptoms and went one by one on every instance of nightmares because Harry had been a good Auror who built solid cases. But that was just confirmation of what he had spotted.

Fred dreamed of someone pushing him down and choking him, of the earth opening and spectral hands dragging him down into the rift, of wading in a pool of guts and blood while the level rose slowly. Regulus dreamed of being discovered and the Death Eaters chasing him, of fighting in Grimmauld Place and Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, and Hogwarts, always Hogwarts and the labyrinth of changing corridors while Bellatrix Lestrange yelled at him and casted _crucio_ and while she missed her aim, she brought down chunks of stone from the ceiling that grazed Regulus’ face.

They were horrible nightmares in their own right. They were something else too.

“You have each other’s trauma,” Harry announced. “You are each dreaming something related to the other’s death.”

Harry had a big gleeful grin on his face. Regulus and Fred looked at each other and immediately averted their gazes, embarrassed with the knowledge of the thing that hurt the other. _My dream is bad, but how bad would it be to you?_ And _I’m so sorry you had to see this. _It was a strange moment in which they shared the conviction that as much as they hated their nightmares, they would rather not switch back.

Harry couldn’t be less concerned about their embarrassment; truth be told he had dropped all ability to be embarrassed around them. He had to, if he wanted to keep them clean and well treated. He was awash with excitement and relief. It had been eleven, no, twelve days, now that he looked at the clock, since he found them and this was the first sign of a pattern. He didn’t know what it meant or how to make them have their own nightmares and if that would mean they would heal physically and whether they could get rid of the nightmares altogether. There was a lot he didn’t know, but he had a place to start.

It was also pretty late. They should get some more sleep. Harry hoped that now that they knew the root of the nightmares they would go away or be less scary. He vaguely remembered reading something about exploring fears and knowing their origin. Well, here it was.

Harry cleaned up the fallen inkwell although he didn’t do a very good job of it. The tea set he left where it was. He was suddenly very tired, drained of everything. He barely even worried about the inevitable awkwardness with Malfoy when he saw him again. Although now that he thought about it, he also thought about the root of that awkwardness and maybe it was best to leave dreams be and not explore them or you would find yourself thinking about a soft pink mouth. 

ooOoo

The City was an anthill full of people, but even ants go to sleep at night. Grimmauld Place was in a residential district that didn’t see that much movement throughout the day to begin with. At night it was quiet and still. More so in the nights of almost winter when it was cold and it rained a miserable drizzle. Nights like this you wouldn’t even find a late goer returning from the opera or the cinema. Tomorrow, now, was Tuesday. People didn’t stay up late before a Tuesday.

There was no one outside. There wasn’t anyone to see how there was no one outside, to be witness to the lack of presence.

There was no one on the street and there was no one walking away from number 12 Grimmauld Place. No one had circled the house three times. No one had attempted to enter, forcing open the magical wards that protected every wizarding house _and_ the meaner and stronger wards typically seen in rich pureblooded houses.

No one had been rejected with force and prejudice. No one had encountered a murderous will as strong as its own, a homicidal strength that told the breaking and entering party that it would be destroyed, obliterated, burned and the ashes scattered. No one had been singed by that opposing will.

If Harry had woken abruptly at the sense of danger, it was due to the nightmares. Nothing had happened. No one was there. 

ooOoo

Harry woke to the annoying but familiar feeling of a cold nose and toes. Hogwarts and the Gryffindor tower had had the same problem as Grimmauld Place. They got chilly at night and the fire often died long before the morning when someone (a house elf) would ignite it back.

Harry got up yawning and went to open one of the curtains. He was thinking about breakfast and about the hot shower he was going to take, warming him down to the bones and taking the chill of the night away. He might even take care of other business while he was there. That ought to relieve tension and make him go back to dreaming about Quidditch games and being a little boy at the Dursleys, as usual.

“Hey Kreacher, did you sleep well?” he asked smiling as he crouched to look under Regulus’ sofa. The cold fireplace plus the tea set still on the table where Harry had left it last night meant that Kreacher was still in his makeshift bed. Good. Harry had had a lot of trouble making the elf take better care of himself, but that was to be expected. The surprising thing was that he had almost disobeyed Regulus a couple of times in his quest to serve him.

The little nest was empty. Harry got on his hands and knees and put a hand on the cushion and old towels that made Kreacher’s bed. They were cold.

“What is it?” asked Regulus, his voice rough with sleep. He sounded less like velvet and more like a big cat in a velvet box.

“Kreacher isn’t here.” Harry got back on his feet blinking. The little light filtering through the window said that they had slept a bit late and Kreacher was used to getting up a little before sunrise. It was all normal except for the cold fireplace and the used tea set, but maybe there was something keeping him busy in the kitchen.

Fred stretched his arms and yawned like a lion, long and loud. “Oh, I have to use the loo,” he announced.

“Give me just a minute,” Harry said. Fred had probably intended to go alone, but Harry was having none of that. Fred still had a purple and yellow bruise on his head from the last time he went to the bathroom unaccompanied.

The room was cold so Harry lighted the fire with his wand. Usually you had to at least clean the fireplace first from dust and ashes, plus putting new logs and a charm to reduce the smoke. But the room was cold and Harry had two patients. There were also a few cast iron radiators around the house because all muggle technology was awful except when it made life easier, but they took too long to heat up. He would turn those on and once they were warm he would bring the fire down to a few embers, just enough to be able to receive a floo call.

Not that he was expecting any. Malfoy didn’t appear to have one, or an owl for that matter (Harry was going to investigate that, after the tattoo and the daily walk through the grass), and Luna’s was clunky and they had a working schedule in any case.

Harry grabbed the tray with the tea set and with one last warning glance at Fred to stay put he went to the kitchen.

“I feel like I could consider jam on the toast,” said Regulus as Harry left. Just a little bit. A touch of colour over the bland cheese they were eating.

Progress.

Harry navigated the mess in the foyer easily. He walked to the end of the corridor and the stone stairs there that descended to the kitchen. The only light came from a tiny window in the service door. Not that the door was of much service because age, multiple layers of paint and rust on the hinges had made it impossible to open. The Order had tried, he and Ron had tried when they were hiding there during the war, virtually every single person who came to the house in the busy post wars day had tried. Almost as if opening the door made you, if not the king of England, at least a baron or earl. Neville held the current record with two big chips of paint falling to the floor and a quarter of a turn of the doorknob. It had been decided that he was henceforth to be addressed as The Right Honourable Neville, Lord of the Knob.

(He had also requested to be called Master of the Hinge but Harry refused.)

There was a small draft or cold air coming from said door, but Harry didn’t register it because even the walls seemed to be radiating cold. The shadows weren’t as long as during the sunset, the light was enough to go by if Harry watched his step. The dangerous part was the crowded foyer in any case. Last night Harry had gone down and up the kitchen stairs with less light than now.

With no light at all.

There was a racket of china and metal as the tray and the tea set fell to the floor. The teapot and cups broke in pieces, spilling old tea and milk. The metal tray and the spoons rattled for a long time, a merry silver chorus to accompany the anguished “no”.

He had his wand in his hand. That was pure instinct, dropping everything unimportant and grabbing the wand. He had casted _lumos_ non-verbally and even non-consciously because he had merely wished for light without thinking of anything else. His left hand was touching the little body, the dry and wrinkled skin.

“What is it? Harry! Harry! What?”

Regulus and Fred were at the top of the stairs looking pale and afraid and terribly brave. They were leaning against each other and they seemed to have managed to come there through mutual dragging. In his fist Regulus was holding the four wands that had waited inside a vase until they were well enough to use them.

How long? How long to hear Harry and get up and grab the wands and drag themselves there?

How long had been Harry kneeling on the floor?

He got up slowly, Kreacher’s little body in the crook of his elbow. Harry only needed one arm to hold him. He was so small. Harry was still clutching his wand with his right hand, hard. He didn’t weigh anything.

His body was cold. 

Caring for Regulus and Fred was bad. It was horrible. It was exhausting and stressful. It was a long and drawn-out nightmare in which failure was a constant possibility. And Harry had taken the task and he was doing it, brave and stubborn, and— Kreacher was dead. Kreacher was stiff and cold. He was dead and there was a horrible finality to it. Like a mocking and cruel taunt. _Look at you struggling. Look at you fighting to keep death away. This is it. This is death. _

Kreacher was dead and nothing could be done.

Harry had turned to Regulus because Kreacher was his in a way he never was Harry’s. Regulus’ tipping point towards his betrayal of the Dark Lord was the uncaring and cruel way he had treated his house elf. He should be the one to say what should be done, just as Harry had to be the one to dig Dobby’s grave.

Only apparently that wasn’t a thing people did. All Regulus could say was that when a house elf died you called a company and they _disposed _of the body. If you were fond of the elf you said so at that time and the company would give you a keepsake.

Harry would have never thought that the stuffed heads of former house elves were a sign of affection. 

It just… no. He couldn’t do it and neither could Regulus. Not now at least, not when they had just found him and Harry couldn’t stop thinking that he might have passed right by his side last night, right by his side and he didn’t see him.

ooOoo

If Harry had been worried about any lingering tension or awkwardness when Malfoy next came to see them, he needn’t have. Sure, the image of Malfoy kneeling between his legs was still there, and Harry’s eyes went automatically to Malfoy’s mouth which was less pink and glistening than in his dreams. But Harry was too tired and numb to feel anything about it. He was feeling nothing except for the sensation that he was surrounded by death, had always been. Doomed to seeing people close to him die, regardless of if he liked them or not, and he the only survivor like some sort of conviction. A life sentence.

“Oh, god, what happened?” said Malfoy as soon as he saw him, so Harry knew he looked as awful as he felt.

He did. He was pale and ashy, with his hair terribly dishevelled and still wearing his pyjamas when for the most part he made an effort to dress smartly. With the exception of that day when he opened the door on his underwear (and it had been a very busy morning) every other time he had been smartly dressed. The hair was another thing, but while generally tousled he had at least managed not to look like he had been fighting an acromantula with it.

He silently waved Malfoy in and admired his look of confusion mixed with relief as Malfoy entered the living room, sans the usual complaints over the cluttered foyer, and saw that both Regulus and Fred were there, alive.

“Why the funeral faces?”

“Kreacher is dead.” Harry didn’t recognize his own voice.

Malfoy merely said a soft “ah,” sober and straight, and looked at the little bundle that rested on the armchair under an embroidered tablecloth.

“Have you called a disposal company?” Malfoy asked, still sober, still calm. Harry shook his head no. “Good. They would be bound to notice something. The state of your entry door at the very least.”

Ah. There it was. Harry felt something like a very small nudge inside him, if the inside of him were very far away. He didn’t know if it was love, relief or annoyance though.

Someone said that they didn’t want to just dispose of Kreacher as if he were a broken home appliance. It might have been Regulus or Harry or perhaps Fred who was the only functional one although not by much. Fred (George too) didn’t take it well when people were unhappy.

Malfoy shoved Harry out of the living room and told him to wash his face and bring them breakfast, so that’s what Harry did. Toasting bread and heating water and putting the cheese in a little dish all the while knowing that Kreacher wasn’t there to hiss at him for daring to putter around the kitchen. 

Meanwhile Malfoy took Regulus and Fred to the loo and got them back to the living room and sitting on the same sofa. Regulus had a copy of _The Prophet_ in his lap so he could look at the cartoons. Malfoy had also passed him a copy of last weekend’s _Quibbler_ that of course Regulus had already read but he didn’t mind re-reading.

When Harry returned with breakfast Malfoy was bent over the secretaire by the window writing something. The magic wands were back in the vase with the dragon eating peaches.

Harry put the tray on the coffee table just as he had done last night. It was the same teapot, after he had cast _reparo_, because he hadn’t been able to find another one in the kitchen. He had brought an assortment of mugs, instead of teacups, that celebrated Quidditch teams.

“All right,” Malfoy said, turning to look at him with a folded paper in his hand. Harry hated the absolute coldness with which Malfoy was moving but he was also grateful for it because his own numbness had him paralysed. Perhaps he was overreacting. Kreacher was just an old house elf after all, and not even a particularly nice one. He was rude and coarse and he overboiled all the food. He was _old_. It had been coming. There was no reason to feel so wretched.

He still had tears prickling in his eyes.

“I’m finding you a place to bury him.” Malfoy pointed at the white bundle. “Can you bring the owl?”

So Harry went to the library and got Aeneas from his perch. Another old and ugly creature. Aeneas seemed to sense that something was wrong and he snuggled against Harry’s arm, rubbing his head against his chest and Harry had to take a moment and a deep breath so he wouldn’t cry.

He cried anyway. Aeneas looked at him adoringly with his one eye and Harry just began to cry. He felt very tender and very weak.

Malfoy ignored his red eyes or the fact that he had taken such a long time to go to the library and back. He had served himself a mug of tea without needing persuasion and had Regulus and Fred chewing on their respective slices of toast with tasteless cheese.

He did look at Aeneas and then back to Harry with a guarded expression.

“This is the only owl you have,” he said.

Harry just brought Aeneas forward. The owl jumped onto the secretaire and offered his leg while looking at Harry for approval.

Malfoy very deliberately said nothing, but something in his face changed. He smiled too. He tried to hide it, but he smiled, Harry was looking at his mouth and he saw it. It was a smile that said that of course Harry had an almost useless owl. Just as he was upset about the death of an old house elf. He just never did things quite like he was supposed to.

Malfoy petted Aeneas on the head, one careful and long stroke of his hand. Then the owl hopped on his right arm and stayed there looking happy while Malfoy opened the window and told him where to go.

Harry was standing near the painting, his painting, so he turned to look at it. Today the ruins were even more broken, the boy (it was a boy, never mind what Regulus said) even more alone, but the serenity was still there. Harry thought the young man might be sitting in shock, numb with grief like Harry was, but as he examined him he convinced himself that he was seeing stoic acceptance and a cruel kind of courage, the kind that said that you would not despair, you would not break down, you would claw your way up and refuse to feel pain _or else_.

He heard more than saw Malfoy come to a stop near him. He took a sip of his tea and looked up at the painting in silence.

“The perspective of that arch is wrong,” said Malfoy, his mouth twisting to the side. He was holding the mug very close to his stupid face. “And his arms are too short. Look at them. Ugh.”

Harry could feel himself bristling with indignation. The painting was perfect and no one was to say anything bad about it.

“No,” he snapped. It was the first thing he was feeling that morning and it was wrath.

“What? Listen, Potter.”

“No.”

“I’m just saying. The arms are too short. And that arch over there, it ends in a funny way. It should— ”

“NO,” said Harry again. There was something in his voice that made Malfoy pause and look at him. “There is nothing wrong with it, Malfoy. You hear me? It is perfect. And my owl can deliver letters as well as any other and Kreacher— ” Harry’s voice broke here so he decided to go back to the painting. At least Malfoy had displayed the good sense not to insult the two others. “It is a wonderful painting. I don’t expect you to understand it or appreciate it.”

“I…” Malfoy tried to say. He smiled in a placating way but his eyes were wide with surprise. That distance Malfoy put between himself and the world was still there so he shouldn’t speak if he wasn’t in the world with the rest of them, experiencing the awful things that happened there.

“No! There is _nothing_ wrong with it, you understand?” Harry was almost screaming and he hated that, he hated that his emotions were so hard to hold back. He hated the anger that was burning inside. “It is the expression of very difficult sentiments in a masterful way, it is a prodigious reflection of war and human nature and I won’t have anyone picking on it. So shut up, Malfoy. What do you know anyway? You are so detached and aloof, aren’t you? So much better than anyone, so _removed_. How would you know?”

Malfoy said nothing. He looked at Harry with an inscrutable expression, his grey eyes dark and penetrating. Harry was vaguely aware that he might have insulted him and that he couldn’t afford that. Malfoy could turn around and leave and he would have every right to do it and Harry would be left to deal with this mess alone.

(Plus Luna, every other night.)

“All right,” Malfoy said, bowing his head slightly. “My apologies.”

There was a gasp. Harry saw Regulus and Fred leaning over the backrest of the sofa and staring at them. Fred’s face showed tentative relief while Regulus was looking at them with curiosity and something else. As if Malfoy and Harry were crossword clues that Regulus didn’t know the answer to, but he could guess at some of the letters there. 

“You are hungry. Come, sit and eat something.” Malfoy was walking back to the coffee table, completely ignoring Harry’s outburst and not helping the aloof accusations very much.

“Listen, I…” Harry began as he went to take a seat. Never let it be said that Harry wasn’t brave enough to apologise.

“No, no, I understand.” Malfoy wasn’t looking at him, filling a mug with tea and dropping in two sugar cubes without asking.

“Malfoy, I spoke harshly and— ”

“You can call me Draco,” he said, passing Harry the mug. He grabbed a piece of toast and began to spread strawberry jam on it.

Harry stared, confused, and darted a look to Regulus and Fred in case they knew what was going on. Fred didn’t. Regulus looked intrigued but like he might know something.

“Eat,” said Malfoy, Draco, passing him the toast. Then he grabbed a second one, spread apricot jam on it and took a bite.

“What happened?” whispered Fred.

“I’ll explain later,” Regulus whispered back. Harry hoped he would be allowed to hear that explanation.

“I suppose you should call me Harry, then.” Harry might be confused but not so much that he didn’t know what to do next. If he had tattoo, he would show it to Mal— Draco.

Oh! He could show him the scar on his chest. He might like that.

ooOoo

Malf— Draco stayed with them the rest of the morning except for a brief period near lunch time when he left for around twenty minutes before coming back and actually sitting down with them to eat the sandwiches Harry had prepared. Harry didn’t dare ask what he was doing or where he was going during the meal times. It was a delicate matter and today was not a day Harry could deal with delicate things.

Fred coughed some blood, but it was contained to a handkerchief and his pyjama top. Regulus had a strong headache, although he barely spoke through it, and also got a bit of a high fever. He dozed on his corner of the sofa with shiny but lost eyes.

And then, Aeneas returned flying slow and looking unbearably proud of himself. Draco petted him again on the head absentmindedly while he read the message.

“Excellent. As I thought, Luna has a nice place. You can choose between a mound in a grass field where the thestrals graze or below a magnolia.” He turned the paper around so they could see. “Sketches of the place included.”

“Magnolia sounds nice,” Regulus managed to say. His lips were dry from the fever, his eyes glossy. The way he pronounced “magnolia” though, Harry immediately wanted to put Kreacher there. It sounded quiet and fragrant and well-lighted, Kreacher should be in a place that was well-lighted.

Regulus, however, was in no shape to go anywhere, even if he was side-apparated with someone. Harry looked at him hesitatingly, biting his lower lip, but he didn’t waver for long. He would make sure Kreacher got a nice grave and he would tell Regulus all about it and _one day_ Regulus would go see for himself.

“Take your time,” said Draco as Harry went to the door, the bundle that was Kreacher carefully held in his arms.

Draco was wearing a light green sweater. It had two loose stitches on the elbow but otherwise seemed fine. A bit bland, perhaps. His hair didn’t stand out like when he wore black or blue.

ooOoo

Harry was received by some sort of cartoon bird, big and purple and with just a few lavender feathers at the base of its long neck. It made a funny sound, like a hollow gear. Harry liked it. He smiled at the, what was that, a condor? He smiled at the bird. Nice bird. It brought a note of colour and fun to the place. He liked Luna’s place, it was calm and pretty, but he often felt a certain melancholy there. Perhaps because Luna was alone there, and she had been very alone at Hogwarts, and she deserved better than that.

“Hi,” he said to the bird. It extended its wings and flapped them twice.

Luna came soon after, introduced Harry to the bird (it was a vulture called Sevila) and took both of them on a path around the house.

Well, she took Harry. Sevila just chose to follow them with wings half extended.

“Do you want tea? I can make you tea now.” Luna spoke over her shoulder. She had her hair in a low ponytail and Harry found himself absentmindedly comparing it to Draco’s. Luna’s hair was wavy with a few curls at the end, whereas Draco’s was sleek and straight. But it was the exact same colour, pale blonde that almost looked white. He was amazed that he hadn’t noticed it before. He wondered if anyone else at Hogwarts knew.

“No, thanks,” answered Harry.

Luna nodded. “It’s better for after. My Dad took four cups of tea before my Mum’s funeral. After the first one he couldn’t get himself to the door. Someone had to come and push him out.”

They visited both of the places Luna had offered and she also said that if Harry liked another better they could use that one. But the magnolia tree was good. It had a short trunk and long branches with big glossy leaves and in the spring it would have big white flowers. Harry liked the intensity of it. The hardness of the leaves and the size of all of it.

He put the white bundle on the ground and accepted the shovel Luna passed him. It was the second time he had done this. Afterwards they put a decently-sized stone on top on which Luna had painted Kreacher’s name. They were done.

“I hope… I told Regulus that he could come visit, one day.”

“He can say if he wants something added to the stone, then,” Luna answered and looked at Harry. Both of them understanding what they were saying and what they were leaving out.

They had tea. Actual proper tea, dark and bitter. They talked about death and life and grief and how weird and confusing Draco Malfoy was. Harry was sorry he ever doubted Luna. She was right and her cousin was the strange one. They laughed about it and about other things, small and silly. About how people didn’t usually concern themselves with the burial of a house elf and they had managed to be at two of them.

“I will be there tonight,” Luna said as Harry was leaving. Harry smiled and waved back.

And no one saw it.

No one was there.

ooOoo

“He was very handsome. Of course she wanted him,” Regulus was saying. His voice was reasonably lively although a bit tired. The fever must be gone or substantially reduced because he spoke deeper and slower when he had a high temperature.

“He was hideously ugly, the second time,” Draco said, stressing the “hideous” to make justice to the horror of that bald nose-less head with red eyes. 

“Yes, Harry mentioned it.”

“Hi,” Harry said softly, leaning against the door to the living room. He was tired but also oddly at peace and he didn’t want to lose that feeling of calm. He took the gloves off his hands and shoved them in the pockets of his coat. He had no one to remind him to take them with him now. “What are you talking about?”

“Bella,” Regulus and Draco answered in unison. They were sitting next to each other and Draco had his sleeve rolled up, as if he had been showing Regulus what was left of Voldemort’s mark. Regulus, too, had his sleeve rolled up, but it was slowly coming down. There was a fresh teapot on the table, but Harry didn’t want any more tea for a while.

“She had the hots for Voldemort,” peeped Fred, always helpful in filling people in. He had a bit of toilet paper in one of his nostrils.

“Oh, yes,” confirmed Harry while he took his coat off.

“You too?” Fred rose his eyebrows and looked at Harry in surprise. “How do you know? You barely met her.”

“It was… apparent.” Harry came back to his place by the door after hanging his coat. He couldn’t explain it better because it was true, he had barely met her, thank Merlin. But it was also quite obvious, yes. Harry hadn’t known much about sex and attraction and erotic matters back then and he still had noticed what was going on. He waved his hand trying to convey the point.

“Which is strange,” Regulus said as he put a strand of hair behind his ear. Very nice hair, Harry was a bit envious. It was soft and glossy and always fell in a nice way. Unlike Harry’s which tried to go in every direction at once and might be inhabiting a dimension of its own. “Her husband was quite a catch. All the girls wanted him. Sure, he wasn’t as handsome as Voldemort, but he was fun and vigorous.”

Draco turned to him with a frown, almost as if he were checking Regulus for other symptoms of an incoming seizure. “He was a sullen and dim alcoholic,” he said.

Granted, Harry had encountered Rodolphus even less than Bella and always in a battle context which didn’t allow for much conversation. But he tended to agree with Draco here. Rodolphus hadn’t looked particularly fun or chatty. Many people talked while they duelled, if only to insult and threaten you. Harry had no problem admitting that Garner had been pretty funny and high-spirited, if a complete lunatic. Rodolphus on the other hand was dull and straight, monotonous in the way he fought. Harry remembered that it had felt easy to defeat him.

Ah, yes, yet another Death Eater Harry had duelled and defeated. Not during the Battle of Hogwarts, he had been busy with other things then. It was when a few Death Eaters escaped detention while awaiting trial and there was a two-day panic before they had them all in hold again. Indirectly, that became Ron and Harry’s default admission to the Auror Academy.

Anyway, Rodolphus had been sullen and morose through all of it. He had gone through the trial with barely a spoken word and that with the _veritaserum_. He died in his cell before receiving a sentence or saying anything remotely useful. Not even the other Death Eaters cared.

“Rodolphus?” cried Regulus. “No way. The man had wit and spark. He was one of the most charismatic people I have ever met. Like Sirius, but for pureblood supremacy. That’s why he was chosen to infiltrate the Ministry. He was charming and people liked talking to him.”

“Maybe Azkaban changed him,” offered Harry. He tried not to think of what Azkaban had done to Sirius. The smell of alcohol that clung to him the year he had to spend locked in the house.

“Yes, well…” Draco began to say but he stopped and looked distractedly at nowhere in particular. He blinked in confusion and Harry felt himself tense. Everything looked like a sign of an incoming attack nowadays, even when it wasn’t Regulus or Fred. Luna had sneezed earlier and Harry had immediately grabbed a basin in case she had a nosebleed.

(And they had both laughed about that because it was the best thing to do.)

“What?” said Draco at last. He had a very funny expression, surprised that he had lost his thread of thought.

“Rodolphus was fun but Azkaban made him weird,” supplied Fred. Really, he would make for a great reporter. He should be in charge of all the headlines.

“Oh, yes,” Draco said, pointing at Fred. “Father might have said that Rodolphus already had the personality of an oyster past its date before Azkaban.”

That meant something. Harry felt a flutter in his brain, a thought that was there, a call to the investigator to do his work and investigate. Just like when he noticed a discrepancy in a testimony or someone came in with an acrid smell on the cuffs of their robes.

(People brewed illegal potions all the time and then cleaned everything and got rid of all the evidence except the smell on their clothes.)

Regulus made a small gesture with his lips, as if he couldn’t be bothered to shrug his shoulders but he would purse his lips a little. “I never knew much about his mission, but I know it was important. One of the big departments in the Ministry, I think. If he did something to blow his cover or didn’t get the information on time… Voldemort wasn’t above punishing his own.”

Which painted a scary image. Not that Rodolphus deserved any compassion. He had been a horrible person. But the idea that his own leader would do something like this, something so powerful that it changed his personality forever. Well. You had to feel horror and sympathy for that. For the act if not the actors.

It also put a new layer of terror on the shared dreams. This was what Voldemort did to a loyal follower who failed an assignment. What would have happened to Regulus if he had been discovered?

ooOoo

Draco left. Luna came. Harry cooked dinner and got the kitchen in order. He fell into bed feeling exhausted both in mind and body, especially mind. It took him a while to fall asleep, as if his brain first needed to unload the many images and thoughts he had accumulated through the day. Purple feathers and red eyes that seemed more friendly than Voldemort’s, Rodolphus’ sullen face, mouth permanently down and face badly shaven even though they were allowed toiletries. Soft and white skin in contrast, surrounded by a halo of silver and gold. The ruins of a high and proud place, forgotten and conquered by vegetation. How good it was that a tree would grow from a place of desolation.

He fell asleep with all those thoughts in his head. He woke up in the middle of the night, however, with one single thought in mind. Maybe not even a thought, just the urgency and desire in his cock begging for attention. An insistent burn that took over everything else and wouldn’t go away.

Harry forced himself to shake the sleep away; he couldn’t believe he had woken up merely because he was _horny_. He had to check that nothing else was going on.

The house was quiet though. He couldn’t sense anything. He padded to the door to his bedroom and then to the banister of the stairs and he still heard nothing. Luna had left a soft light on in the corridor.

Nothing.

Harry returned to his room and his bed. Since he was up, he drank a glass of water and valiantly ignored the heaviness in between his legs that had woken him. Two looks at the clock told him that it was sometime between four and five (he was sleepy, he couldn’t tell more than that).

He went back to bed and put the covers on top of himself.

He was still not thinking about anyone or anything. Just lying down and willing it to go away and let him go back to sleep.

Harry was a stomach sleeper, and here he was, face up, with an erection that wouldn’t go away and wishing for sleep to come. Only, before falling asleep he had to let his mind wander for a while and all he could think about was his erection, and the last time he had one, and what he had been thinking then and how absolutely sweet and hot and tingly it had been to dream of that mouth and those hands and—

Look, he was a stomach sleeper, he was not going to get anywhere if he lay belly-up resolutely staring at the boring ceiling.

He turned over.

Yes, well, definitely more comfortable. Much improved, generally, except for the new pressure that said if only he moved a bit _more_, and pressed _down_, he could imagine that there was someone else next to him, below him and—

That would be wrong. Or complicated at the very least. He didn’t know. He was tired and horny and did not have the mental faculties to consider the situation properly. He was tense, a delightful tension in his belly extending all the way down to his toes, and then a more familiar and dreadful tension between his belly and his lungs from all the worrying he was doing, plus an extra tension in his shoulders that he didn’t know where it came from and a tension in his head that most likely was lack of sleep and yeah, never mind. This was ridiculous. Nothing urgent was going on, the house was quiet, he was alone in his room and if he didn’t deal with this and free some of that tension it would return at a worst time.

He moved, slow and delicious. He put a hand on the pillow for support and let the other go down and grab a good hold and press and move just as he liked. He still didn’t think of anything and tried to keep it all abstract. A hand, a mouth, an ass, someone kissing his shoulder perhaps, biting lightly, whispering filth. No one in particular, he made sure of that, not even man or woman. It took him a while but it wasn’t long and suddenly the tension was extending everywhere, down his legs and to his toes, up to that new block of tension in his shoulder. The release took with it the stress that clung to his muscles.

He still imagined Draco’s face, that little smile that was like a smirk before he gave in and accepted something. That face he had made today when he had apologised inexplicably after insulting the painting. But Harry had already come so surely it didn’t count.

His wand was close at hand, (always), so it was a matter of murmuring a cleaning spell and then, finally, falling down to sleep.

ooOoo

The next time Harry woke up it was sometime before eight. He was feeling reasonably rested which these days meant that he was tired but not terribly so. He heard Luna singing downstairs, not well but not badly either, so things there were calm. Harry could indulge in a hot shower, maybe even properly washing his hair with care products so it would be shiny and bouncy.

There was also the other matter, unexpected and a bit impressive considering that it had been less than four hours. He could ignore it and it would go away, Harry was sure. This was nothing like the previous night or the one before when he dreamed of Draco.

He wasn’t thinking of Draco in any case.

Only it was inevitable to have Draco come back to his thoughts because Harry had dumped half a bottle of something on his hair that smelled like coconut and promised silky results. He had thought about Regulus first because Regulus had black hair like his but straight and smooth and gentle-moving, like a veil or a delicate shawl. Harry’s hair looked like the basket of snippets and fragments that the seamstress had rejected while building the headdress that crowned Regulus’ head.

And Draco had long and beautiful hair that he wore in a ponytail and looked like it would be very smooth. His father had also had long hair but it hadn’t looked like that. Better groomed, perhaps, but stiff. Draco’s ponytail moved and sometimes hanged over his shoulder and it was cute and ordinary and welcoming.

Harry ended up taking care of his morning erection in the shower because it wasn’t going away and he couldn’t wait much longer or risk going downstairs in that state. He didn’t think about Draco at all, at least at first. Then he realized that he was thinking about kissing him which was so ridiculously sappy. When people masturbated in the shower they thought proper adult dirty thoughts, with fucking and grabbing and pushing and things they would never do in real life but got them excited. They thought of costumes and restraints and any of the spells in that little book that was impossible to buy, no self-respecting bookstore carried it, but everyone had a copy of.

And here Harry thought of a boy and of kissing him. Just holding and kissing and maybe touching his hair that looked so nice.

He blamed it on the stress of the last few days, the fact that he was barely seeing anyone else and the strong awareness that he should not think at all about Draco in this way so his brain was probably trying to be helpful and thinking about kissing rather than more, er, advanced things. At the very least it should save him some embarrassment later.

ooOoo

Harry tried to think as little as possible of his time with the Dursleys. There were cans of worms and then there were tiny closets under the stairs with spiders, and nothing good came of either of them. He was mildly surprised to see that he had gotten good things out of it. Things that he could have learned somewhere else with a much better environment, but it was nice to see that the experience hadn’t been completely wasted.

So Harry knew how to cook. Nothing terribly elaborate, nothing like the wonderful dishes Mrs Weasley prepared, but enough to survive. They didn’t teach this kind of thing at Hogwarts, cooking the usual way or cooking with charms. It was the kind of thing you learned at home or had a house elf do. Harry had learned at a very young age because he had to earn his keep at the Dursleys somehow.

Harry was very proud of being able to present eggs and tomato and sausages to Luna, toast and bland cheese for the other two. If Kreacher’s absence hurt, it wasn’t because Harry was lost without him, because he needed a servant, but because of the grumpy house elf himself. He could live without Kreacher, that wasn’t the problem.

Still, if Harry had someone else around, elf or human, he wouldn’t mind. Luna left right after breakfast. She had to. It wasn’t a question of not wanting to help, she just had her own house and animals to care for and she could only stay at Grimmauld Place so long. Harry had to wash the dishes (not hard) and think about what they would have for lunch later and what kind of prep he would need to do. He had to check the groceries but before that he had to take Regulus and Fred to the loo to relieve themselves and brush their teeth and so on. Luna insisted she could do it and on one or two occasions she had helped them go brush their teeth at night, but nothing more since they refused all help in further matters. To be precise, Regulus refused and Fred joined him out of solidarity, like a toddler who begins to cry because his friend is crying.

On their way back to the living room Fred suddenly flailed and fell to his knees, held up only by Harry’s strong arms and unable to say what had happened. He had simply lost the strength to keep upright and his vision had wobbled, although he was able to get to the sofa on his own, Harry’s arms holding his elbow and around his waist.

Harry didn’t like it, he didn’t like it all. He still had other chores to do but he delayed them for fifteen minutes and sat with Fred to check that he was well. Regulus was a bit slow and drowsy but otherwise doing well and he even asked about a second cup of tea that Harry brought him at once.

Since he had to go back to the kitchen, it reminded him: groceries. There was a standing order for groceries that were delivered to the house, just like the paper that arrived in his mailbox every morning. They could even bring you muggle stuff, for a small extra cost.

The box was delivered to the service door, the one that didn’t open. Kreacher could just apparate behind the door, grab the box and apparate back inside, either in the kitchen or on the stairs. Harry, however, didn’t have a clear idea of what was behind the door so he had to leave through the main door and walk around.

The sky was grey. Two drops of water fell on his face, although it might not have been rain, it might have come from the nearby trees. It looked like it might rain later and like it had rained a bit during the night.

The street in front of the house was dull white stone while the alleys between the houses were either old asphalt or even older cobblestones. An improvement over the pressed dirt and soil that used to make the streets and particularly the narrow lanes between houses. Most of the time it would be just plain mud.

Harry was able to cross it quickly without worrying about smearing his shoes and getting specks on his trousers (a nice shade of green today) or about sidestepping the worst of a muddy puddle. He got to the back door without a hitch and without noticing any of the tracks he would have inevitably seen if the streets were still mostly mud.

The box was there, pressed against the wooden door. When he crouched to get it Harry noticed quite a few chips of blue paint that had fallen from the door. The obvious thing would have been levitating the box, not grabbing it with both hands, but Harry wasn’t a very good wizard. He was a more than competent magic user, but he was a bit clumsy as a wizard.

He lifted the box slowly, unsure of how heavy it would be. As he rose, his eyes followed the line of the door. The chipped wood on the edge and near the lock. The lines of strain both in the door and the brick wall. Some of them looked fairly recent.

Harry saw all that and even more, he _noticed_ it. He registered all he was seeing. It wasn’t the casual and unavoidable look while going through the motions. His look was intelligent.

But it was just a look. Nothing else. Harry didn’t know a thing about the Smell of Death the house exuded or about the party interested in it, about anyone coming to the house and walking around, checking the possible points of entry. He didn’t even know about Luna being watched and something upsetting the thestrals (Sevila was always upset). If only she had mentioned it Harry would have been more on guard about anything strange in his surroundings. He might have checked the door more closely, found the lines of magic clashing around the lock.

But he knew none of that. All Harry had was the intuition that an abstract someone coming from the Ministry might attempt something.

All he had was an intuition and what he observed, and that wasn’t much.

He walked back to the main door. It didn’t occur to him to apparate but in any case, he glanced at the main door and the state of the lock there. It was fine. Smooth paint and hard wood and no signs of age, unlike the back door.

Draco had said he wouldn’t come until after lunch that day, which was perfectly understandable because yesterday he had spent over six hours at the house. Surely he had other things to do. He had been very adamant about having other commitments and a job, so he would have to attend to them. Although Harry was starting to suspect that Draco had only said that to be difficult and contrary. He did not keep any kind of working hours and his only regular activity seemed to be grass stomping and scribbling in a notebook. Draco might consider that a job, though.

Harry put the groceries away and decided that a sandwich would do for lunch. Maybe stew for dinner. Stew was hot and comforting and, after the initial preparation of chopping the ingredients, it was just a question of waiting and periodically checking the pot so the water wouldn’t spill. He went upstairs to check on Regulus and Fred. Regulus had crawled over to Fred’s sofa and was sprawled next to him, reading _The Prophet_ and talking about Quidditch.

“Everything all right?”

They nodded. Harry asked them to use their words and they rolled their eyes and said they were fine and had already read the _Ruff!_ cartoon. Perhaps Harry was being overbearing but Regulus spoke hoarsely when he had a fever and both of them were faint when in pain. Harry needed to hear them speak.

He went up to his bedroom to make the bed and freshen the room. He looked at the laundry basket and then he looked at the wardrobe and, seeing that he had enough clothes there, he decided that if he got around to doing any laundry it would be towels and handkerchiefs. Maybe pyjamas, unless he got another chance to go outside and buy some more clothes for Regulus and Fred (ideally with no stripes). Maybe some good smelling soaps while he was at it.

“Harry!” called a voice, warm and sweet and distressed. “Harry!”

Harry ran downstairs. Regulus was on the sofa, grabbing Fred tight to stop him from rolling to the floor. He was already in the shaking phase, his arms and legs jerking wildly. Regulus didn’t have a good hold on him and Fred had fallen in an awkward posture, so Harry rolled him to the floor and carefully got him on his side. Harry’s heart clenched at the already familiar rap-tap-tap of a body banging against the floor and anything surrounding it. He put the cushion that Regulus handed him under Fred’s head.

Harry thought madly, irrationally, that whenever it seemed they were doing better, whenever he entertained the thought that he might call Ron after all, that it wasn’t so bad and Ron could take it, something happened to kill that thought. It was mad but Harry felt mad. They had been doing well this morning and yesterday too; the shadow of Kreacher’s passing taking over the day and hiding that they hadn’t had any serious episodes. They had asked for tea, eaten a sandwich! He felt as if he were being punished, through Fred, for daring to think that he could let Ron know.

Perhaps… perhaps it was so. He already knew that there was something strange ailing them, besides the fact that they ought to be dead. After finding Kreacher he had completely forgotten about any late night conversations and discoveries of dream patterns. All Harry could think about was that he had surely walked right by Kreacher’s body, that his death might have been what woke him in the night, and he didn’t notice.

The convulsions lost strength and rhythm until they stopped completely. There was a bit of piss and blood on Fred’s clothes and the cushion was damp from all the spit he had drooled. Harry caught Regulus’ gaze, looking at Harry sad and concerned. It was always surprising when he looked at that face and saw brown eyes there instead of blue. Regulus had a way of looking, too. Just like Luna and Draco seemed to be very far away and gazing at you from a distance, Regulus was very close, almost as if he were inside you.

Harry wondered how Regulus had managed to lie and deceive Voldemort the legilimens, but he supposed that Voldemort hadn’t looked him in the eyes much. He probably didn’t like that gaze.

“I appreciate it,” Regulus said suddenly. His voice was like the smell of coffee and it dissipated just as quickly, almost as if he hadn’t spoken.

Harry was petting Fred’s hair slowly, untangling his locks with his fingers. “You don’t have to…” Harry began. It was a bit difficult for him too, looking Regulus in the eye. “It’s the thing to be done. I can’t imagine not helping. Even if it looks like I am tired or annoyed at times.” He looked up to say this because it was important. It might look as if he wanted them out of the house, as if this was a curse that had fallen on Harry and he bewailed his black fortune. It was important to stress his next words. “This is my choice.”

A curse it might be, but a curse that Harry accepted. Even if it meant that he would spend his days surrounded by death. This was his choice.

“I know that,” Regulus said. He dropped a cushion on the floor and lowered himself to sit on it, his back against the sofa. He dropped a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “I appreciate that you are not lying, is what I mean, Harry. That you are not leaving out something important.”

They spent the rest of the morning there, sitting on the floor and petting Fred waiting for him to recover. Harry told Regulus about all the times someone hadn’t told him something important. Regulus was getting up to speed about all he had missed during the last twenty-six years, but he said that Harry’s narration helped to build a timeline. Harry was a good narrator and Regulus enjoyed listening. Fred was listening too, quiet and still but with his eyes open. At one point he began to cry and Harry let him, figuring it was just the post-seizure exhaustion.

While Harry spoke, Regulus practiced with one of the wands (the reddish one, whichever that was), casting small lights and trying to get them to change colours. He had success eight out of ten times. Other times his hand shook, or he coughed, or he was just plain tired and lost his focus, and the charm didn’t work. Harry explained, in the barest tone, about life at the Dursleys and learning he was a wizard while Regulus made some white and yellow lights that fluttered around the room like butterflies. They seemed to amuse Fred to no end.

ooOoo

Draco came after lunch wearing the black sweater Harry had given him. Harry hadn’t thought at all about him during the morning and he had _barely _thought about him while he was in the shower. As if to compensate, Draco took over all of his thoughts the moment he crossed the door. He had washed his hair and his ponytail had extra volume. There was a small leaf stuck to the sole of his shoe and two specks of green on the fingernail of his right thumb. He had a slight flush on his cheeks that gave light and life to his face.

At least it wasn’t terribly awkward. Harry was strongly reminded of his previous thoughts of Draco and that should have made things difficult. It should be plain on his face that he had been thinking about Draco, wondering about how it would feel kissing that mouth of thin lips, the taste of that cunning tongue, dreaming about that mouth doing other things. But Draco had completely taken over Harry’s brain. Everything about him was worth being noticed and studied, so any thoughts about his mouth (which shouldn’t be attractive to begin with) or the feel of his hair or the flush of his skin were drowned out by all the other thoughts about him, the elegant hands (okay, that didn’t help) with stains on them, the graceful gait, the secret on his left arm, the deliberate and discerning way he looked around him.

Not being weird around Draco because he was thinking too much about Draco to focus on the really embarrassing parts didn’t seem like a good long-term solution. Harry reminded himself again that he was hardly seeing any other people so it was only natural to think of him and be curious. He was tired, too. It wasn’t going to get out of hand because Harry had used up his embarrassment allotment that morning taking care of Fred and he just didn’t have the energy to look back and be appropriately embarrassed now.

“How are you?” asked Draco softly as he came inside. His eyes were very soft which wasn’t something one associated with grey eyes like his. Grey eyes were steel and iron and unyielding, grey eyes had a storm in them that forewarned of terrible things to come.

Grey eyes could also be made of a feather bed and a lazy rainy day.

“I’m… well,” Harry said out of habit. He was always well. There wasn’t a murderous megalomaniac bent on killing Harry so he really couldn’t answer anything else.

Draco twisted his mouth and looked at him sideways, disbelieving, as he got inside the living room.

“And here I came willing to let you peek at my left arm to distract you from your grief,” Draco said haughtily, turning his nose up. He looked at the painting of discord (which had no faults whatsoever) before taking a seat. “That won’t be necessary, I see.”

It was necessary. It was very necessary. It was also a change in their dynamic and Harry had to be careful. Draco was the curious one, not he. Not that he expected anything bad from Draco, not anymore. But he would be giving him a certain power if he admitted to his burning curiosity. Although he might have already admitted to it.

“I want to see it, too,” said Fred. Fred was a fantastic person and the best friend and older brother one could have. “Harry says you have a naughty witch riding a broom.”

Fred was a prick.

Draco made a big show. He sighed and huffed and rolled his eyes as if he were granting them a big favour. He wriggled in his seat to take his left arm out of his sweater and nothing else. Fred hummed a song out of tune to make things more dramatic. At last Draco got his arm out and showed it to them, turning it one way or another before quickly hiding it back under the black wool. All in all it was only visible for three seconds.

Three seconds.

Fred turned with difficulty to look at Harry, but Harry’s reaction was bound to disappoint. He was calm and collected, perfectly composed when even at the best of times he always had something _not_-composed about him, as if there were something else on the edge of his attention.

“Thank you,” said Harry. “That was very illustrative.”

Fred turned again, with equal difficulty, to look at Draco. If Draco was disappointed at Harry’s unruffled answer, he hid it very well.

“Glad to be of service.”

Harry couldn’t speak for Draco but _he_ was satisfied. Three seconds was a lot to the trained eye. In three seconds he had time to see that the tattoo was really a single piece made of individual elements that shared a colour theme, grey and white at the bottom and bright colours only at the top. He saw that the front of the shoulder had a patch of deep blue and black that made a tiny picture of the night sky (he couldn’t distinguish the stars, though). He saw something that was either a pencil or a wand. (Logic and experience said that it should be a wand, but Harry was more inclined towards the pencil.) He saw the outline of a curled up dog, and a flower, possibly two, and a patch of gold that could be a snitch.

He even got another quick glimpse of the remains of the morsmordre, the snake’s head and the skull.

ooOoo

Draco stayed in the living room, looking suitably impressed at Regulus’ dancing lights and quickly suffocating the small fire one of them created before Harry could see it and take away the wand. (Harry noticed anyway because there was a small scorch mark on the wallpaper.) Meanwhile Harry rushed through a few chores, getting dinner started in a pot at a low fire, cleaning the loo on the ground floor and sorting the laundry in two piles. Then he went back to the living room with tea, although instead of the banged and repaired teapot he brought an old coffeepot he had found in a corner of the kitchen. In essence it was practically a teapot and Harry couldn’t stand the sight of the old one.

Evidently Draco disagreed, or he found the shape of the coffeepot unappealing, Harry didn’t know. He looked offended at the sight but said nothing.

“What happened to the teapot?” asked Regulus. Maybe the teapot love was a Slytherin thing and Harry just didn’t know. Fred pointed at the coffeepot in confusion, but Fred had grown up in the Burrow where almost nothing was used for its intended purpose and everything had a second life.

“It has a crack,” lied Harry, “the repair didn’t work.”

Draco and Regulus exchanged a look that might be doubtful of Harry’s words or merely judgemental that he thought a coffeepot was an adequate substitute. Fred asked to have a cup and Harry immediately served him one, more milk than water and lots of sugar.

Just like when they talked about nightmares the night Kreacher died.

Harry hadn’t told Draco about that. He did now, showing him the half-completed list with the nightmares. The softness in Draco’s eyes dissipated and instead the grey eyes became two pieces of hard sharp glass, like the lenses of a spyglass. He read Harry’s notes attentively and asked the same questions Harry had asked.

Harry couldn’t help feeling a wave of pleasure, looking at Draco thinking. Like seeing Hermione working through a problem, only in this case there was an underlying current of heat that he did not experience with her. He wondered if that’s how Ron felt when he got that oafish expression while he looked at Hermione talking. That polar desire to keep looking and also to interrupt with a kiss or a touch.

Harry crossed his legs and shifted his posture discreetly. 

“I…” Draco began. “You have been doing magic, what about you?” He pointed at Regulus and then Fred. 

“Harry insists we practice with mock wands,” Fred answered reproachfully. “He is like Umbridge.”

Draco looked at the scorch mark on the wall. “He would look far more fetching in pink,” he said, and looked pleased when Harry guffawed a surprised laugh. 

Draco also thought that they should learn more about Regulus and Fred’s magic. This had always been about magic after all. The treatment they were giving wasn’t strictly magical and maybe that was right and maybe it was wrong, but they had to admit that there was something magical going on that they didn’t understand.

There were other questions to discuss. Even if they casted the same spell under the same conditions, the wand they used would affect the results. Harry was already thinking of letting them borrow his wand so it would be the same material lent under similar conditions. Who knew the origin and allegiance of the wands in the vase?

Draco had written “mirror curse” at the bottom of the paper about nightmares, and that was another big area to explore, cursing someone to feel the harm they inflicted on you. They were only taught about it in seventh year DADA and just the theory of how to combat it. There might be other variants and maybe Regulus and Fred were suffering something like that. Maybe they could fix all of this the moment they found the right charm or maybe using anything remotely magical would cause more harm.

There was a magical connection binding Regulus and Fred, they were pretty sure about that, and you never knew how a magical bond would react to magical interference. Not well, was the most likely answer. Explosively and forcibly. Look at Harry’s bond with his mother. He had burned a man to a crisp.

There was all that to discuss, but they were interrupted when Fred dropped his teacup. The cup broke and the tea spilled over the carpet, spattering everything. Fred had a rigid expression, his arms hanging limply at his side. He blinked at them slowly before his eyes lost all focus. Then his head fell forward.

He had a seizure. Probably the stiffening part was a seizure too, but he had another one with the shaking and jerking and arching his back and losing all control of his body and bladder and looking as if he were cursed. He had a seizure and he had already had one that morning and everyone in the room was terrified of what that could mean. It had been six hours, maybe less.

The seizure stopped two minutes later. Five minutes after that Fred said “I’m waking” two times, which they understood to mean that he was starting to feel better. Seizures left them drowsy and confused and sometimes they had trouble making sentences work. By then they had gotten him sorted out, clean and resting on Regulus’ sofa. (Regulus had been moved to an armchair. Draco was currently cleaning the sofa that was usually Fred’s.)

“I’m waking,” Fred repeated, sounding slightly anxious and short of breath as if someone were hurrying him to get moving already when Harry was doing the opposite, whispering him to be calm and rest and take it easy.

“I’m waking,” he said, his hand moving clumsily as if looking for something to hold and pull himself up. “It’s just, I can’t open my eyes.”

Harry grabbed Fred’s hand tightly. Fred’s eyes were sky blue, like all of his siblings’ and they were open, pupils moving around. Harry saw them pass over his face without stopping, as if Harry weren’t there, as if he were wearing the invisibility cloak.

“All right, Fred. Don’t worry,” Harry said, more for his own sake than Fred’s. “Why don’t you rest for a while, and try again later?”

Fred blinked a couple of times and lay his head back, still clutching Harry’s hand for comfort but less anxious. “You are very tired,” Harry said, with just a little thread of a voice because anything stronger would break and come out choked.

Draco took a couple of steps and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. His touch was light, as if unsure of his welcome, timid in a way Draco never was. Harry took a deep grounding breath to force down the panic and the familiar feeling of dread in his stomach and stopped himself from resting his cheek on that hand on his shoulder. Draco pressed down a bit more tightly before retiring his hand and himself to the other side of the room.

They were all very quiet.

Fred blinked a couple of times and he rested with his eyelids half open. When he did that it looked like he was just tired or distracted, thinking of something else. It was when his eyes moved, when they passed right over Harry and didn’t see him, when they couldn’t pinpoint Regulus or Draco in the room. It was…

Harry swallowed. “Regulus,” he said, proud of how firm his voice was now. “While the sleepy-head here rests, why don’t you tell us a story about school?”

Draco could do that. Harry could do that. They certainly had quite a lot of tales to share. But as shaken as they were, they were not as distressed as Regulus who looked as if he had just seen Fred die. His eyes were wide open and focussed on the three of them, jumping from one to another and desperately looking for something, any sign that things were not this way, that Fred wasn’t really blind.

Regulus told them a sort of funny story about first years getting lost on their way to the Slytherin common room and fleeing in terror when the ghost of the Bloody Baron came to give them directions. He had exactly the kind of voice one would want to hear if afflicted with sudden blindness. His voice was like tearing with your fingers a piece of a chocolate cake that has just come out of the oven. Too hot to bear, but comforting and sweet and good smelling.

Twenty minutes later Fred still hadn’t regained his vision, but he had enough of his brain back to realize he couldn’t see and be upset about it. Harry hadn’t moved from his side and Draco hadn’t moved from his spot by Regulus’ armchair. He clutched Fred’s hand tightly, fingers pressing on the palm and thumb digging into the back so there would be no doubt about Harry’s presence, and didn’t lie to him. He didn’t say that it would pass and that it would be fine and not to worry. He said that he was there with him, Harry was _there_, Fred wasn’t alone, and Harry understood if he was afraid.

“I _am_ afred,” answered Fred plaintively. He got a sobbed laugh from all of them and that in turn made him smile.

An hour after that, Fred said that he was starting to see spots of light, like through a dense fog, and everybody breathed in relief.

Then Fred said, “What’s that smell?” and Harry suddenly remembered the dinner he had cooking downstairs. He had forgotten about it, like one might do when a friend has two seizures in less than ten hours and develops temporary blindness. The water had evaporated completely and there was only a hard black mass at the bottom of the pot. He casted _scourgify_ twice but the bottom of the pot remained black; the food had probably fused to it.

It didn’t matter. They could have more sandwiches. Or Harry could start from scratch. Honestly, after Fred had said he could _see_, even if it was just a tiny bit, the stupid food didn’t matter.

“You know, if your foyer wasn’t so packed,” Draco said the word “packed” as if it were a terrible offense, “you could have food delivered without arising suspicions.”

“Well, you won’t take anything with you,” answered Harry. Then he took a box at random and left it by the door to the dining room which was foyer-adjacent. “It’s fine. I will fix something quick. I have a tomato.”

Draco was preparing to leave. He had probably stayed longer than intended again, moored there by Fred’s blindness. He had in his hand the strap of the leather bag he sometimes brought with him. The one where he kept his notebooks. The notebooks weren’t as interesting as his tattoo or his choice of clothes, though.

“Look, I have to go to Diagon Alley anyway,” Draco spoke with a calculated and studied nonchalance. “I can make an order at one of the shops and Luna can pick it up on her way here. It won’t delay me much.”

How curious. The offer to do that but also the time constraint that stopped Draco from buying something and coming back to Grimmauld Place and maybe sharing the food with them. It was hardly the time of day to arrive at any job and yet Draco had to leave and couldn’t stay any longer.

Harry accepted because he was going to accept anything that came from Draco. He also insisted on giving him the money, which Draco naturally refused but eventually accepted with reluctance. Only it was strikingly similar to how Ron talked when they were young, so Harry suspected there was a secret relief there. 

Draco left. Harry went to write a note to Luna to tell her about the detour to Diagon Alley. It was a bit late to send Aeneas; Harry hoped that the owl would get there before she left.

Regulus was back to casting lights that changed colours and Fred was looking at them in reverent silence. It was just one or two lights, though. Regulus had the strain around his eyes and mouth that said that he had a big headache coming and in an hour he would be wishing for death to come relieve him. He was sitting very close to Fred, sides pressed together.

Harry gave the note to Aeneas quickly and winced when the owl, in its excitement, bumped against the frame of the window and against a lamppost almost right away before taking flight and disappearing over the roofs of London.

Harry returned to the living room to make Regulus lie down with a cold towel over his eyes. Then he took his wand and casted some more pretty lights for Fred who looked at them with eyes full of tears. He could distinguish most of the colours, he said.

ooOoo

“Hello Harry,” said Luna as the door opened. “Can I come in?”

“No!” Harry’s answer was quick and strong. Luna gave a step back startled, her big blue eyes widening in wounded surprise.

Harry’s instincts had kicked faster than anything. Certainly faster than his brain that was still trying to make sense of the situation. If Luna, sweet, smart, caring Luna, was standing there on his front step with her blue sweater and boiler orange skirt asking to be let inside, then, who the fuck—and Harry wasn’t fond of swearing but the situation merited it—who the fuck was the Luna already inside the house?

Harry wanted to throw up. His temples were pulsing and he was beginning to sweat despite the cold air coming from the street. Luna was inside. Luna was sitting with Regulus and Fred. Luna was in front of him, asking what was wrong.

“Step back,” he said firmly. His wand was in his hand. Merlin bless his habit of always having the wand close, especially when opening the door.

“But, Harry…”

Harry had turned around and was entering the living room with quick strides. Luna was close to the door, looking at him serenely. Regulus had a far more alarmed look on him.

“What— ”

Harry grabbed her by the arm forcefully, hard enough to leave a bruise and he was sorry about that, really. He dragged her after him quickly, across the foyer and to the door to the dining room on the opposite side. There were mirror gasps and exclamations of surprise as the two Lunas got a glimpse of each other. The one at the door had climbed the stairs and was standing on the threshold, her long mane of silver hair ruffled by the wind. It was the same colour as Draco’s hair, the same colour as the Luna in Harry’s hands. Not ten minutes ago Harry had been idly examining the resemblance between Luna and Draco. They had just the same hair, although Luna’s was longer a wavier, and almost the same eyes—Draco’s were pure grey, Luna’s had a bit more blue. They were identical even in their resemblance to Draco.

Harry pushed her inside the dining room and closed the door. His heart was beating madly and he could feel it in his ears and in his throat. Two steps back took him to the centre of the foyer where he could see both doors at the same time, one closed and one open.

He heard Regulus call for him. Harry wished he could close the living room door and have him stay there with Fred, away from any not-Lunas.

Somewhere in the streets nearby there was an old clock tower giving the hour with soft chimes. It was the usual time for Luna to arrive. If she hadn’t received Harry’s note, if Aeneas hadn’t made it in time, she would have come around now. The other Luna, the Luna in the dining room with grey tights and a pink dress and her hair in a messy braid, that Luna had come with a bag of food from Tonino’s thirty minutes ago. Too fast for Aeneas, now that Harry thought about it, unless the owl had been intercepted.

If someone had harmed his owl, Harry would tear their heart from their chest with his own hands.

“Harry!” the Luna at-the-door was saying. She looked worried, her brow furrowed in distress, her rosebud mouth slightly open. Draco had thin lips that were utterly unremarkable while Luna had lips full and small. A beautiful mouth made to sigh and say “sir,” and “yes,” and “I beg thou”.

“Oh, Harry,” she said now.

“I told you to step back,” Harry answered angrily. He was angry and scared and although it wasn’t outwardly obvious, he was very dangerous.

“Dear Merlin,” murmured Regulus.

Luna at-the-door looked at Regulus when he spoke but Harry couldn’t study her expression because at that moment Luna-in-the-dining-room opened the door and peeked out, asking if there was really another her.

“What’s going on?” asked Fred from the living room. Hopefully Regulus would go back to tell him and both of them would stay there. “Why is the door open? I can feel a draft.”

“Don’t move, both of you,” ordered Harry. He had positioned himself with his back to the living room and he was taking a fighting stance.

“Merlin’s beard, Harry!” cried Luna-at-the-door. The other Luna remained silent, her eyes taking on the scene anxiously. She was very pale while the other one was slightly flushed. She also had a rosebud mouth.

None of this helped.

Harry heard Fred’s cry of surprise, followed by some slow steps and something metallic. He couldn’t afford to pay attention to them, though. “Stay behind and close the door,” he said without turning to look at Regulus and Fred. He took a small step to the left, hiding them from view. He was vaguely aware that everybody was talking, all of them.

“I want both of you to raise your hands,” said Harry to the Lunas. They didn’t react, however. They were looking at each other and nothing in their expressions betrayed anything useful. The Luna-in-the-dining-room had opened the door more and more, getting her body out of the room inch by inch. The other one had stayed at the threshold at least.

The bite of the cold air on his skin was the only real feeling around Harry.

“Harry,” called the Luna-in-the-dining-room. The pink Luna. She didn’t say anything else. She threw the door completely open with an almost violent gesture and she looked at him straight in the eyes. There was something slightly defiant in the rise of her chin, the way she had her arms open, her chest thrust forward.

She nodded at him.

“_Stupefy._”

She dropped to the floor, unconscious. She could have hit her head against one of the chairs but it seemed that she had taken the precaution to move them away from the door.

Harry turned to the other Luna. Luna at the door with her hair loose. Blue and orange Luna.

“Step back and show me your hands,” he ordered again and almost immediately casted the same spell, not waiting to see if she would comply. This was the best course of action in a polyjuice case. The situation was too stressful to make a decision so it should be postponed until both subjects had been isolated and apprehended. One could think better once the threat had been contained so that’s what Harry was doing, knocking both of them down.

She deflected it. She avoided Harry’s spell.

“Harry!” she cried. “What are you doing? You already got her.”

Which was as good as saying that she was the fake one because the Luna that had been in Dumbledore’s Army with him, the Luna that rode to the Ministry to rescue Sirius, the Luna helping him with Regulus and Fred all these days, that Luna trusted Harry. She wouldn’t deflect his spell. She hadn’t. She had called him to do it.

He was glad that it was the one at the door. That meant that Aeneas hadn’t been intercepted. Unless it was all a ruse and both Lunas were impostors. Harry would check. He wasn’t risking it.

“_Expelliarmus_,” said Harry. The wand danced in not-Luna’s hand rather than jumping from it and landing on the hedge on the other side of the street, but it was enough. Harry casted something simple, a spell he used to put out the fire and all the lights in a room at once. It made a draft of air strong enough to distract the fake Luna and make her finally drop her wand and he didn’t even have to say the words aloud, barely had to even think about it.

In the meantime, Harry had closed the distance between them.

Usually magic duels were fought standing away from each other almost by a secret agreement. Harry, however, tended to fight at close quarters if that gave him an advantage. Harry was ruthless and swift, as you should be in a fight. Any second the fight draws out is a degree of increased danger for both combatants. The best course, even for your enemy, is to be fast. There is less damage in that.

Harry was fast. His left arm shot out and he grabbed not-Luna by the throat. He pushed a bit forward so she would be off balance, on the edge of the doorstep.

“Who are you?” he snarled.

“Harry, please, what…? It’s me!”

He shook her. He might have to stun her and get her inside to interrogate her, but he didn’t like that. He didn’t like having a fight right on his front step but he preferred it to having that woman any closer to Regulus and Fred.

“Who. Are. You,” he repeated. Now that he was close to her, he had expected to see little tell-tale signs that this was the wrong Luna. Something in her eyes or the way she spoke. The performance that the polyjuice still required.

There was nothing. She even had that calm look that was so Luna. The only damning thing about her was her insistence on her innocence, because the real Luna—and this Harry knew well—the real Luna was stupidly brave to the point of suicide.

She looked to her right, over Harry’s shoulder, to the point where Harry knew was the door that went to Regulus and Fred. The foyer was very dark, though, she might not be able to see anything.

When people attack they always look at their target. Even now she couldn’t help looking back at Harry before her attack, but she did it at the very last second. She put her hand on Harry’s arm, small and dainty, and she did _something_. No words were uttered, although Harry saw her mouth something. Then he felt a terrible pain extending from the point where she had touched him, like an electric shock or a weak _crucio_, all the way down to his fingernails and all the way up to his teeth. His arm jolted and despite himself Harry lost his grip and let her go. The pain was short-lived as numbness quickly took over his arm. He couldn’t move it and he could hardly feel it, as if it had been severed from his body.

Maybe it _had_ and only the clothes were keeping it somewhat attached. Harry certainly wasn’t going to check right now. She was trying to move forward, get inside the house, and one touch of her hand had been enough to make Harry feel like a ragdoll.

He should be on his knees, weakened by pain and shock, but what he did was bend his knees to get his centre of gravity lower, bow his head down and push with all his might with his right shoulder. Harry had some nice strong arms and shoulders.

And they were both outside the house. What glorious feeling, the cold air on Harry’s back. She had to spread her arms and take two steps down to stop herself from falling. She was out and on lower ground. She had both her arms though—apparently didn’t even need a wand to do magic and her wand was right there on the floor in any case.

Harry didn’t give her any respite.

“_D__ŵr_,” said Harry, which was a stupid spell, but extremely simple to say and cast. Enough to divert attention as the water nearby (and it had rained just last night) slid towards them as if he had casted _accio water_ instead.

The point, in any case, was to make the other person pause for a second and worry about what that meant because it wasn’t a well-known spell. Whoever it was with Luna’s face looked at Harry bemusedly. She might know that the spell was innocuous, but she was confused nevertheless.

Harry kicked her, right on the knees. This is why a quick defeat was better even for the defeated party. He kicked her, the son of Lily Evans, the grandson of Henry Evans the blue collar worker and enthusiastic Manchester City fan. He kicked her and sent her to the floor with a violent force she hadn’t put in whatever she did to his arm, as painful as it was. When Harry hurt someone, he meant it.

Now Harry was at the top of the stairs, covering the threshold completely, and she was on her hands and knees, scrambling to get up, to get to her wand. Harry casted _stupefy_ right at her, which made her jerk and lose her balance but didn’t seem to do much more. He had only seen that happen with giants, half-giants and dragons. People didn’t just shake off a _stupefy_.

He casted again, something different. _Reducto_ and _diffindo_. She got a deep gash on her chest, but she didn’t stop, moving away from him and still trying to get up. Until, apparently, the pressure became too much and with a last look at him and a gasp, she disapparated.

Harry was left standing on the first step of the house, panting and with a sudden and strong headache. He still couldn’t feel his left arm, although there was some prickling pain on the left side of his neck and shoulder.

The wand was where she had dropped it by the doormat. Harry had never seen anyone apparate or disapparate without a wand, although it was said that Grindelwald had been able to do it.

(Harry seriously doubted that someone who had obsessively hunted the Elder Wand would be that accomplished at wandless magic.)

It felt so underwhelming, after the terror of a minute ago. The street was quiet and dark. It was cold. There was no one there.

His temples were still pulsing hard. There was no one to fight and chase anymore so Harry bent down to pick up the dropped wand and went back inside the house.

ooOoo

Harry was right. It was extremely rare for someone to disapparate without a wand, not to speak of dangerous.

But there were other ways in which someone could disappear from view. They could even disappear and stay in that same spot, panting, sore, afraid and surprised. They could be there, unseen, watching with hate the closed door.


	3. Knowing

ooOoo

PART THREE

Knowing

ooOoo

Harry leaned back against said closed door of the house. It felt very good, having the solid wood against his back. Before him, standing in the doorway to the living room were Regulus and Fred. Regulus had a wand in his hand. Fred had a wand sticking out of the breast pocket of his pyjamas (Harry had always wondered what the purpose of pockets in pyjamas was). He had also grabbed the fire poker, having apparently decided that duelling wasn’t for him.

“What was that?” asked Fred.

“I don’t know,” said Harry. “Stay where you are.”

“Luna?” Regulus had taken a step forward. No one was listening to Harry tonight and he was going to have a very stern talk with them.

“Stay back. We don’t know that she is the real Luna.”

“The other one didn’t seem much like her,” Fred argued. “What happened to your arm?”

His arm was still hanging loose at his side and Harry was still not looking at it. He crouched in front of Luna who looked like her, just as much as the other one.

“Regulus, I am not saying it again. Step back.”

This time there was something in his tone that made Regulus listen, and he went back to Fred’s side. Harry casted _enervate_ and waited at a safe distance for Luna to wake up.

“Harry?” she asked softly. “Did you win?”

“Yes, Luna,” Harry answered softly enough. He could take precautions and remain civil.

She paused for a second, looking around her. Harry noticed that she was surreptitiously looking for her wand. Good. Of course, it was in Harry’s pocket.

She looked at him, calm and serene and slightly distant, as if she were looking down at him from up in the sky instead of from the floor of his dining room.

“I am dazed,” she said, not sounding all that dazed actually. “Just like when I got my first kiss. From Neville.”

Oh, clever, clever woman. Forget about a first kiss, Harry was going to kiss her right now, because she had asked if Harry had won but she had been knocked out for it so she was checking! She was checking that Harry was really who he said he was and she had gotten up and was searching with her eyes for Regulus and Fred.

“Neville wasn’t your first kiss,” Harry said. He still wasn’t sure _why_ he knew that. “It was Ginny and it was to spite the Carrows, I think.”

She nodded, satisfied. She smiled softly and looked more relaxed.

“Do you want to ask another question?” she offered.

Honestly, not that many people would know about that incident, but Harry wouldn’t mind being extra sure before he let her near Regulus and Fred or handed her her wand back.

Fortunately, he didn’t even have to ask something intimate and secret. Just something that no one else could know.

“What was that word on the crossword the other day?” he asked. “The one you couldn’t get.”

“Oh! Terpsichore!” she exclaimed. The spelling had stumped Regulus and her, although Harry suspected that sometimes Regulus played a bit dumb when she sat by his side because he liked having her sitting close and wanted to draw it out.

“All right,” said Harry. “All right.”

“But her hair is pink?” Fred asked bemusedly. He had his vision back, but there were a few settings to adjust yet.

(He said that from what he had seen of the other Luna, her hair had been faintly green.)

ooOoo

They went back to the living room. The rest of the unfinished dinner, now cold, winked at them from the table. Harry’s heart was still beating madly and he still had a headache. This was the part he liked the least. The aftermission the Aurors called it. When the imminent danger had been dealt with but there were now dozens of little things that were not as dangerous but certainly just as imminent. Securing the location. Checking for wounds and giving medical attention. Writing down everything you had seen before you lost the fresh details to the shock and exhaustion that would come over you the moment you sat down.

Harry checked the windows and door for damage, a little notebook trailing after him and hovering near his head to write down whatever he said. Time of the event. Spells casted and their effect. Any words the fake-Luna had said. Anything she had touched.

Fred called the notebook to him and laughed as it crossed the room, its covers flapping like the wings of a butterfly. Harry felt a pang of something on the left side of his chest. The notebook was widely used by Aurors and the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol and it was a few years old now.

It was a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes invention. One of the first products developed by Ron.

Fred had no idea. He told the notebook the differences he had seen between the two Lunas and that it had been freaky.

There was the question about what might have happened at Luna’s place. Someone might have tried to get rid of her before sending her copy to Harry, someone might have done some damage while looking for her there. She had animals there! Aeneas should be there now.

Luna, however, wasn’t very concerned. Luna reminded them that her cottage was extremely safe. No one should get inside, mostly because the danger _was_ inside. There wasn’t a werewolf there anymore, but there were thestrals who were sweet gentle carnivorous creatures. Luna explained about the things that thestrals might do, but rarely did, while she nonchalantly removed her dress, getting down to her tights and cotton shirt to see if she had any injuries. Harry had left a mark on her arm (he was so sorry!) and she also had a bruise on the opposite elbow from when she had fallen to the floor, but she was otherwise fine. She didn’t even feel the sting from the _stupefy_, having gotten used to it in the DA.

“I can’t believe Aeneas got there so fast,” Harry said, looking her in the eyes, tracking her features for something that was uniquely hers, something that her copy might have gotten wrong.

Regulus, for whatever reason, was holding the vase where they kept the wands, looking intently at the picture of the dragon eating peaches. That reminded Harry that they should examine the fake-Luna’s wand.

“Oh, no. I left before Aeneas arrived,” Luna said, getting her dress back on. Her hair was tousled, and she combed it quickly with her fingers. Her hands were smaller than Draco’s, but just as elegant. “But don’t worry, I left a window open for him.”

“Then, how…?”

“Draco dropped by and told me to go to Diagon Alley.” She looked at Harry’s befuddled expression and added, “Don’t worry, I told Sevila to stay alert. She will look out for Aeneas.” Then, in a lower voice, she added that at least she was pretty sure that Sevila was a she.

All right, then.

Fred used the little pause in which Harry didn’t know what to say, or where to look, and what to do next, to point out that Harry was still not moving his arm. That, apparently, Fred could see very well. It still took seven minutes for Harry to sit down and submit to an exam. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to get back up once he sat down, so he had to check everything one last time.

Harry’s arm hadn’t been severed. That was nice. He couldn’t feel much of it, which was worrying, and what he could feel was pain.

He would have liked to move all of them to one of the top floors. While he didn’t expect any new attacks that night, he would also sleep better knowing there was a nice flight of stairs next to them. You could defend a position really well from the top of the stairs. But he was too tired to do the move, too tired to even go to his own room like he should so he could sleep uninterrupted and get all his energy back. His jacket fell to the floor and Harry only felt a dull pressure in his chest when he realized that he could leave it there until next morning because Kreacher wasn’t going to complain about wrinkles and dust or any of the other things he used to nag Harry about.

They slept in the living room that night, the four of them, and it was like when he and Ron and Hermione were running away from Voldemort but it also wasn’t and for some reason Harry wanted to cry. 

ooOoo

Harry removed the sling he had made with a scarf for his arm. A sling was a sign of weakness and a target, whereas an arm hanging loosely to the side might go unnoticed if you weren’t Fred. He could move his fingers and wrist and bend his elbow, which were all wonderful signs, except for how much it hurt, as if he were being stabbed with a silver knife or with a Basilisk’s fang

(Harry had personal experience with both).

He positioned the arm carefully to look natural, made sure the door to the living room was closed, and finally opened the door to the street where Draco was waiting with a faint look of worry about him. Whenever Harry took that long to open the door something bad was happening inside.

“Good morning, Mr Malfoy,” Harry said, his wand held firmly but casually in his hand. He had spent half the night thinking about this, about how, whoever it was, might try again with Draco. Because, why not? About how Harry could make absolutely sure before letting Draco inside.

Draco looked at him, his eyes narrowed, so he knew something was wrong. But that didn’t mean anything. Whoever had come yesterday _knew_ that Harry knew and that he would be on his guard, so they would act accordingly. They would offer extra assurances. They would do everything to put Harry at ease.

Draco being weirded out by Harry was proof of his identity, unless the person polyjuiced knew that Harry would think that. But Harry had gotten a headache with that line of thought. He had asked Regulus, who—being a Slytherin—might be able to help, but he said he dealt with betrayals only.

“Mr Potter,” Draco, hopefully Draco, said slowly. “Is this a bad a time? I can return later?”

“No. It’s fine. I am not otherwise engaged,” Harry answered stiffly.

Draco’s eyes were sparkling like the first time Harry brought him to the house. He looked at Harry and at what little could be seen of the interior of the house. Harry felt a small tremor as he was examined by Draco. His eyes were made of cutting glass and he was cutting Harry apart.

“Something is wrong,” Draco said at last. His voice was different, more open and relaxed even when his face was tense and he too had taken his hand to his wand. “I don’t know what it is. Have you been _imperiused_?”

“What kind of answer do you expect to that?”

Draco smiled, quick and sharp and full of wit. “A simple ‘no’ is the common answer, I believe.” He was now looking at the door and the sill. “What, then? Did you remember something nasty about me? Did someone tell you something?”

Well, Harry certainly hadn’t thought that Draco would take it personally. What a mess. This was a mess.

“Now that you mention it, I would like to hear some explanations,” Harry said and noticed how Draco became tense. His lips disappearing into a thin line.

(No, don’t think of his lips.)

“Why do you ask so much about my scar? You keep asking to see it,” Harry said, hoping.

Draco’s face was hilarious and also very probably the real Draco’s.

“I do what?” he sputtered, the next words all coming very quickly. A silver bright stream of consciousness coming to the surface. “I have never done that. I couldn’t care less! And you are the one who— But you know that. It’s a wrong question but it doesn’t look wrong… A clever trap. Well done! So polyjuice then.”

He passed his hand through the length of his ponytail and glanced briefly at Harry, as if reading something in his face.

“You think someone might come under polyjuice. So you act different and see if I pick up on it. Smart. Usually people just ask a question, something that only I could know, I and no one else. Something that couldn’t be learned by any other means. Of course,” Draco tilted his head, as if conceding a point. “If I had been kidnapped and tortured I would have given up that information, so questions aren’t that useful.”

“Not in the least,” Harry agreed. “I thought maybe, if you didn’t notice anything weird, that would mean something.”

Draco was nodding his head. The day wasn’t very bright, dark grey clouds overhead had taken all the light so that it looked like Draco’s hair was the only source of light. “But you expect someone to come polyjuiced,” pointed Draco. “So if that person is half clever, they should pretend to have noticed that you are acting different.”

Precisely. That was Harry’s problem and the main source of his inability to sleep last night. The other part was the idea that just to be safe he might have to bar Draco’s entry, and how he would miss his help and his presence and his conversation and the colour of his hair.

Draco let two seconds pass, thinking. Harry forced himself to stop staring at his face, at the eyes that were made of stormy glass and the hair threaded with silver and sun. He looked at the hands, long and white and elegant and with a purple stain at the base of the left thumb. He looked at his well-worn clothes, at the cuffs of his trousers.

“Teapot,” Draco said glancing at Harry from under his eyelashes.

Okay. Even with torture, no one was going to think to ask Draco _that_. Besides all the other things that were part of Draco, all the things that Harry had unexpectedly discovered and were so unlike Malfoy, all of them were there. Worn clothes and dirty cuffs and diamonds for eyes.

Harry smiled with relief. “Please, come on in. It has been so weird.”

“If you are absolutely sure,” Draco said, following him inside.

ooOoo

“Could I have some tea?” asked Draco which was an achievement because he never asked for anything. If offered, he might accept tea, _might_, but he never even asked for a glass of water. Frankly, Harry hadn’t even seen him go to the loo even when he had stayed long hours.

Of course, given the absolutely mental situation they had at the moment, requesting tea was perfectly understandable and Harry should have offered unprompted. But Harry was busy trying to explain what had happened, as precisely and concisely as always, only to be interrupted by everybody else. The arrival of a second Luna had upset the house, putting them in an anxious state that wouldn’t have been achieved by a dozen of Aurors in battle gear knocking at the door. So they all had to speak and add their perspective at the same time. They were only half way to the duel.

“I’ll go,” Harry said, rising. “Since everyone has something to say.”

“She looked just like me, Draco! I was wearing that same skirt the other day.”

Draco looked very grateful when Harry came back with the tea. Regulus was singing Harry’s virtues on one side, apparently very impressed with the way he had fought the, um, not-Luna, while Fred informed him that he had his vision back but for a few hours he had had powers and could tell the doppelgängers apart.

“I’m worried,” Harry confessed, sitting down in front of Draco, who had Luna and Regulus on either side of him. Cousins all of them, Harry guessed.

Draco looked at him with a special look. Hard and firm and slightly alarmed, but also calm. He looked at Harry as if he didn’t have a lunatic on either side of him, as if only Harry were in the room.

“It sounds as if you did very well,” Draco said slowly. “Even captured a wand.”

True, and that was another of the tasks Harry had to do. Study the wand and see if they could learn something from it. At first glance it was just a wand, a bit short which typically meant it was a woman’s, but typical didn’t match with Harry’s experience. It was a warm colour, not orange and not honey, like yew or golden oak or even honey pine, but the latter was a strange wood to use in wandmaking.

But that was the thing, he had to study the wand because he knew nothing of its owner.

Slowly, with many interruptions and addendums, they told Draco everything. The look of the impostor, the performance, the raw power she displayed in the duel, deflecting spells or not being affected by them, and then, worst of all, injuring Harry without using a wand.

“I see,” was all Draco said at first. He looked at Harry and at the room. “Is it possible the Ministry is involved in any of this?”

“No,” Harry answered firmly.

“But, a stealth mission perhaps… You would use polyjuice then.”

“Only with special permission, signed by a member of the Wizengamot,” said Harry, because this was one of the few times when they actually displayed ethics. There was an ingrained fear attached to polyjuice, a general sense that it was cheating just like Harry casting with closed eyes was cheating. Potioneers wouldn’t brew it if they didn’t see some guarantee of fair use, at least the potioneers employed in the Ministry.

“Besides, I don’t know anyone who could fight like this,” Harry added. That was the thing, he couldn’t think of anyone, friend or enemy.

“Even people you have trained?”

“Especially the ones I have trained. They might have expected me to kick them, but they wouldn’t have shaken off a _stupefy_ as if it were an annoyance.”

“And she almost cut off his arm and his hand,” Fred piped up.

Draco leaned back on the sofa.

“We don’t know that she came for Regulus and Fred. We are assuming that because it’s the only thing in our minds,” he said. Fred smiled and puffed out his chest. “Maybe she just saw Luna coming and going and decided to use her to gain entry to the house and kill you.”

That, if true, would be a relief. Harry would much rather be the target. The only problem was that at the moment he couldn’t think of anyone who wanted to kill him _and_ was powerful enough to even try.

Draco finished his tea.

ooOoo

“It would be easier if we all stayed inside,” Fred said uncharacteristically softly. “There were times when we couldn’t go out for weeks, back when we were hiding, during the war.”

For Fred that was only three weeks ago. Months of hiding with his brother, first at their apartment over the shop and then, when a Death Eater raid came for them, in a couple of safe houses until they managed to reach Aunt Muriel. They had also been afraid of polyjuice use then.

“I don’t think Luna can stay,” Harry said. “Can you?”

Luna said no with her head. She could perhaps reduce the time she spent outside, but she had to go and once she was out of the house it didn’t matter all that much how long it was.

Harry didn’t want her to go and he didn’t want her to go alone but he also couldn’t leave the house. _And_ he had to worry about creating a code so he would know that it was really her and Draco coming back.

“I suppose I could stay…” Draco said in a low voice, as if he wanted to present the idea but not say it. “If there is any— ”

“There are like seven bedrooms,” Harry said quickly. “You can pick whichever you want.”

Draco didn’t answer immediately, weighing his next words. “I think I have just what we need to spot polyjuice use. I will go with Luna, see that her place is all right and then we will go to mine so I can grab some things.”

Harry nodded along, his eyes hard and focussed like whenever he was building a plan of action. He was the image of the heroic Auror, the handsome dark man with glittering eyes and a strong jaw, keeping calm as he decided what to do.

Inside, however, he was squealing in panicked delight. Draco had sort of invited himself to stay _at the house_ and Harry hadn’t ruined it. He couldn’t even wonder what exactly it was that Draco had that could detect polyjuice use, or why he could suddenly move to Grimmauld Place when before he had been so adamant about leaving at certain hours. He would learn about it soon enough.

ooOoo

Harry accompanied them to the door. There, in the darkness of the foyer, Draco and Luna could pass as siblings. He was taller, of course, and had more of a slim figure while Luna’s was slightly rounder. But the way they moved had something strangely similar, just like the faraway look in their eyes. The similarity was more than hair colour.

Harry returned to the living room where Regulus and Fred were getting comfortable on the same sofa and about to start the daily crossword. At least they were both feeling pretty well, if slightly tired. Fred’s two seizures yesterday seemed very far away. They had happened before the arrival of the fake-Luna, in a different world in which health and the potential interference of the Ministry were Harry’s only concerns. This was a new world, one in which they’d come close to a tangible threat. Hopefully Harry was the target.

Harry looked at the new wand that had joined the others in the vase.

“If you are feeling strong enough later, I want you both to practice a couple of spells,” he said, prompting Fred to declare that they must be in dire straits for Harry to say that. Harry didn’t answer. They might be. Harry had every intention of standing between them and any threat, but he was also humble enough, or paranoid enough, to know that sometimes that wasn’t enough. Of course if someone or something managed to defeat Harry, the sick and untrained Regulus and Fred wouldn’t have much of a chance. But if they had one, Harry wanted them to take it. Besides, there might be other ways to get to them that didn’t go through Harry. It had worked for Voldemort and it would work again. If he received word that Luna had been captured or injured, would he stay in the house and leave her alone?

He would probably call Ron and Ginny if that were the case. Harry had learned from his mistakes.

Since they were at a lull in which neither Regulus nor Fred needed attention, Harry took advantage of it and made himself useful. He aired a couple of bedrooms for Draco to choose from, cleaned the bathrooms and swept the stairs up to the second floor. Draco had been in the house, had seen the dust gathering on the steps and had complained about the hoard in the foyer. Harry still wanted to make the house look nice.

Then he went to wash the breakfast dishes.

On his way down the stairs Harry stopped by the back door, where Kreacher had died, and allowed himself to have a thought. Something he wouldn’t say out loud, something he couldn’t formulate yet. Just a thought. As long as he kept it inside his mind it wouldn’t be stupid or crazy, not like the thoughts he had about Draco that kept brimming and showing up on the outside as short breaths and hungry glances and other things that fortunately only manifested when Harry was alone.

Maybe it was the winter rain and wind. Maybe the thought had been there for a while now, because Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had looked at that door from the outside before yesterday. Maybe it was nothing.

But Harry thought about it nevertheless. About the state of that door from the outside and the fact that Kreacher had died next to it and Harry had woken in the middle of the night.

Then he went the rest of the way down the stairs, to the kitchen, and when he came back up he didn’t stop by the door and he didn’t think about it. He went to Regulus (who had a headache) and Fred (who had a bit of a fever) and had them practice _expelliarmus_ with him.

ooOoo

The knock came right after Harry had finished his lunch. Regulus and Fred were taking longer with it. The usual lack of hunger paired with the recurrent nausea (which was much weaker these days) and a bit of tiredness made them only nibble at their bread. There was also a soup, rich and earthy and hot, that they were stirring but didn’t get to eat.

Draco was at the door. He had his leather bag on his shoulder and another, bigger, bag at his feet made of cloth with broad blue and white stripes. He looked serene and pretty and Harry wanted to study his face and remember it, remember the sweet calm of his expression, the tentative gladness as he looked at Harry.

But, well.

“Oh my god! Is this a dog? You have a dog!” Harry exclaimed, kneeling down to get to the level of said dog and offering a hand to sniff before patting him on the head and neck.

“Your observation skills are astounding, as always, Potter,” Draco said drily, although he looked down at him amused. “Don’t you have something to ask me, to make sure I am me?”

“You are supposed to call me Harry now, Draco,” Harry said, petting the dog’s neck. He couldn’t tell what kind of breed it was. It was a dog that looked like a dog, not like a pencil or a mop or a folded cushion. He had short black hair and the cutest ears Harry had ever seen. He wanted to bite them. They were so cute he was angry.

“Not when I make fun of you. It doesn’t have the same ring.”

Harry rolled his eyes and got up. The dog sniffed the rest of him. “Fine. Where did we meet?”

“I still think capturing the snitch with your mouth should not have been accepted.” Draco said, which was the agreed password: answering to a different question.

As they came inside the dog knocked over one of the boxes. The box fell, making a rattle and the dog jumped and looked scared for a second before carefully coming closer and sniffing the source of the noise (two bottles of gin, still rolling on the floor). Then they went to the living room and the dog entered with the ease and joie de vivre that all dogs have when arriving to a new place, sniffing everything and everyone and never even contemplating the idea that they might be intruding. He also assessed every person in the room, quickly identifying the most weak-willed.

“No,” said Fred miserably. “Go away.”

The dog looked at him intently, big brown eyes drilling into Fred’s core.

“This is my sandwich. I am working on it.”

The dog sat down, his muzzle almost touching Fred’s knee.

“Help.”

“Fenton, leave the invalid alone,” called Draco, followed by a pat to his own thigh. The dog, Fenton, looked at him with a happy expression and came quickly to Draco, tail wagging madly. He made a small stop by Regulus, to see if anything interesting happened. Regulus petted him on the flank with an expression that was both joyful and pained.

“I had Luna meet him,” Draco explained. “He will be able to tell if someone is an impostor.”

Honestly, it looked as if Fenton would be very friendly to an impostor, but Harry wasn’t going to say anything against the dog. His ears were too cute and Harry wanted to scream about it.

Fenton decided that Harry wasn’t that interesting at the moment and that he could get pets from him later, so he went back to Fred. Fred’s big family instincts kicked in and he downed the rest of the sandwich in two large bites as you had to do in the Burrow if you didn’t want Ron or Charlie or even Percy to eat your piece.

“Fenton, leave the poor man alone,” called Draco with very little reprimand in his voice.

Five minutes later Fenton was on the sofa, nested by Fred’s side and getting all the pets. His little black nose was leaving a small patch of dampness on Fred’s knee. Draco looked as if this had been the inevitable result all along.

He turned to Harry, eyebrows slightly raised. He was very pretty today. Harry didn’t know what it was, but Draco looked really well. His smile was soft when nothing in Draco ever looked soft. Harry wanted to see more of it. He wanted…

“Right!” Harry clapped his hands. Better not to dwell on what he wanted. “Shall I show you the bedroom? Bedrooms. There are many bedrooms. You can choose.”

They went upstairs and Harry showed him the many rooms of the house. Fenton, who appeared to have gone boneless napping on Fred’s lap, opened his eyes and jumped down. Fred cried a soft “nooo” as Fenton ran out of the room, happy to follow Draco and explore the house.

Draco picked one of the bedrooms on the first floor. Harry didn’t know how he felt about it. He was both relieved and disappointed. He wanted to have Draco close but he also didn’t want him too close, as if he instinctually knew that there was danger in that closeness.

Screw instincts; Harry knew with logic and reason that there was danger in that closeness. He would be distracted, say something stupid and probably trip and fall down the stairs.

ooOoo

Regulus and Fred took a nap after lunch, with Fenton’s help and supervision. The nap was interrupted when Regulus woke struggling to breathe and vomiting blood and Harry fell in the familiar pattern of offering help. Draco materialised on Harry’s side, jumping seamlessly into the routine, handing handkerchiefs and towels and glasses of water as soon as Harry reached a hand for them and before Harry said what he needed.

Afterwards, Harry had them practice with their wands a bit more. They were pathetically and embarrassingly bad. Worse than that morning. So bad indeed that Draco, who was perched in an armchair with a book, refrained from making a single comment. To be fair, Regulus still had a bit of a cough and both of them had a fever, so they were drowsy and unfocussed.

Harry’s wand didn’t even twitch under their _expelliarmus_. He thought about trying levitation, which was a first year spell, but the spell itself was long and the intonation was hard. It seemed that the spells that required little concentration had long and difficult words and the ones that had short nice words that rolled of the tongue, like _accio_, required a great deal of focus.

_Lumos_ was the only one they got right, and the lights were as faint and sickly as they were.

“Let’s have some tea,” Harry decided.

Fenton followed him to supervise the tea preparations and got a biscuit out of it. Harry wasn’t sure if he had provoked it in a way, if maybe he had walked slower at the landing, but Fenton had stopped there and sniffed it for a long time. Every corner of the landing step, the door and its jambs, the place where Kreacher had laid, all of it.

Then he descended the stairs two at a time, body swaggering and tail wagging as he got to the kitchen three steps before Harry.

They had tea. Fenton begged Fred for biscuits, merciless and insistent, so Draco took pity and got a rubber toy that might have been shaped like something at some point. He threw it a couple of times, Fenton running joyously to get it, and then they played tug. Fenton shook his head with such force that it looked like he could rip off Draco’s arm if he clung to the toy. Draco let him win from time to time and Fenton ended up chewing on his prize behind one of the sofas.

Most importantly, Fred had his tea unbothered.

Harry suggested that they could try something different. Regulus and Fred, who had complained every day for the last week because they were not allowed proper wands, now said that they were too tired and just wanted to play with Fenton.

“_Waaaa_,” cried Fred.

Harry was not impressed. The look he gave them was not impressed. Regulus and Fred took their wands, although they kept switching them back and forth because they didn’t fit well, and sat together on the sofa. It was obvious, however, that they didn’t want to do this. Bodies sunk into the backrest, legs spread and sullen looks.

“This isn’t taught in Hogwarts,” said Harry, which immediately captured their—as well as Draco’s—attention. Hogwarts was the source of everything. If something wasn’t taught there it had to be very advanced, dangerous, forbidden, and either dark or naughty.

Or Welsh.

“The spell is _Tân_,” explained Harry, trying to get the vowel right. “You barely have to move, just point your wand. Try to move up to down as you point.” He demonstrated what was the most basic and natural wand movement, starting up and lowering the point of the wand.

“That’s it?” Regulus was very surprised and also very interested. His eyes were gleaming with excitement and fever.

“The motion isn’t very important. All these spells are very simple. Now, you think of fire.”

“This doesn’t feel like magic,” said Draco. He had his wand out too.

“Not a big fire. I find that thinking of a flame works best. Or just heat.” Harry did just that, thought of the idea of fire, the fire in his room when he went to sleep, the flame of the candle before he snuffled it out. Then he let that thought travel down as he said the word and the tip of his wand came alight, like a muggle lighter. Of course, the wand didn’t catch fire.

Harry also knew how to take the flame with pinched fingers and hold it between his thumb and index finger, but he thought it might be best if he left that demonstration for some other time.

They tried. Fred got some sparks very quickly, but it took him some more attempts to have a flame. Regulus got a small one but he managed to make it grow larger just by looking at it.

“Can you move it?” asked Draco. Without waiting for an answer he flicked his wand and made the flame jump a few centimetres in the air. He tried again, to general applause, the flame jumping a good metre in the air.

Harry grabbed it in his fist and extinguished it with a twirl.

“Not indoors. Certainly not in the most flammable room. You can try in the kitchen or the bathroom.”

“_Waaaa_,” Fred cried. Again. He pouted and made the wand let out a stream of sparks.

Combat-wise it wasn’t the most useful spell. Harry would feel better if he could get them to cast _expelliarmus_ and _stupefy_ and even an _expecto patronum_ because even though the latter was for dementors, people were impressed by it and it could cause some damage if only by scaring them. But this was all he was going to get from the two of them today. They grew tired quickly, the fever rose, and they spent the rest of the evening in an uncomfortable slumber.

ooOoo

Aeneas arrived at dinner time with his feathers wet from the rain. Fenton ran to sniff him and see if he was foe or friend. Aeneas batted his wings in alarm and sought refuge in Harry’s chest, wetting his shirt. Harry managed to calm him down and introduce him to Fenton who, thankfully, decided that Aeneas was a friend and not a toy.

Aeneas had a note from Luna. She was fine and the cottage was fine, which they already knew because Draco had done an initial check on her. Sevila had managed to get inside the cottage the previous night, which was a surprising feat considering Luna had left a window open for an old fat owl and not a big purple vulture. Apparently she and Aeneas had spent the night together in friendly company. The thestrals were agitated but Luna didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. All the other animals were well.

The winter spiders were due to hatch in about a month and she needed to apply some ointment to the eggs. Harry had no idea what was that about and neither did Draco but they were both a bit perturbed by the notion that they had been inside a house with spider eggs. Draco even went and brushed off his clothes, with special attention to the sleeves.

“Winter spiders are white,” mumbled Regulus. He was sweating and his eyes were half closed. “They come with the solstice.”

Still not interested.

Draco left after dinner to take Fenton on a walk, instructing them not to open the door to anyone until he and Fenton returned. Harry watched them go from the dining room windows, Fenton trotting happy and elegantly and Draco following him with a brisk step. The line of his back was very nice.

ooOoo

Draco returned, hair glistening with the drizzle, and they retired to the library. Harry didn’t like to exclude Regulus and Fred from the discussion, but sometimes it was better to keep them informed rather than present. They had passed out after dinner in any case. Fenton went to take a nap with them.

They talked until it was late at night. There was the pattern of nightmares that they had barely scratched the surface of and all the information Harry had gathered about resurrections. The precedents didn’t help much with the symptoms (although in at least one case nightmares were mentioned) but Harry saw an alarming tendency for those who had been resurrected to be messed up.

And, of course, there was now a new topic to consider. The question of who or what could shake off a _stupefy_ and still have strength to disapparate without a wand. 

Draco deferred to Harry’s knowledge of the dark arts. “You tell me,” he said. “I can tell you why someone would be interested in a person returned to life. Might even suggest a few names…”

He stopped and blinked, his eyes moving across the room as if he were following the movement of a thought that was escaping him.

“People who might want to know the secret of Death,” he finished. “But people refusing to submit to the power of an Auror is your thing.”

Harry was also distracted. Wandless magic wasn’t exactly unusual but it wasn’t common either. The attacker had carried a wand though. They needed a wand to keep up the disguise.

Harry wondered about it. He didn’t know much about wands but he was still aware that there were wand trends and fashions, so that might tell them something about the wand’s owner. Tomorrow he would go to Ollivander’s and ask about it. Tonight, he was done with thinking.

There was something about libraries where the temperature was never right. Either you got cold and spent all your time there sniffling, or the air became hot and stuffy and you had to undress down to your shirt sleeves and even push those up. Tonight was the second case. Draco had taken his sweater off and Harry had abandoned his jacket and opened two buttons of his shirt. If Draco hadn’t removed his sweater Harry would think it was just him bothered by the heat and that the gleam of Draco’s hair and his look of concentration were affecting Harry. But Draco was equally bothered, a slight flush on his cheeks and neck.

The flush on Draco’s neck was very interesting; Harry was looking at the tattoo though, as he should. The t-shirt covered half of Draco’s upper arm, the patch of stars and the maybe-pencil-maybe-wand. What had looked like the outline of a dog on Draco’s bicep was, indeed, a dog that looked a lot like Fenton, down to the colour of the collar, black with magenta lines.

“You can ask,” said Draco, turning his left forearm forward to indicate he meant the tattoo there, or the shadowed mark. The outline of a skull and a snake’s head.

“Is that Fenton?” asked Harry right away.

“Oh, yes.” Draco moved his arm again so he could look down at the little circle made by the curled-up dog. He looked at it full of fondness, a visceral reaction like the one Harry had when he looked at the painting of the young man sitting in the ruins. Maybe that’s why Draco had stepped back after his criticism. He had put a lot of ink on his skin and flesh, he understood the power that some images had, the emotional energy they carried with them. “But I thought…”

“I’m not interested in the morsmordre,” Harry said quickly. He leaned forward, the edge of the table digging in his stomach. “It doesn’t tell me anything new.”

“Oh? And what does it say?”

“You could have had it covered quite easily,” Harry said speaking plainly, as if it were all quite obvious. “It would be hard to see even for people that knew it was there. But instead you have traced parts of it. You are not proud, or you would have gotten all of it in black, but you also don’t want to erase it and act as if it was never there. I don’t think you like it, you wish you have never gotten it, but you won’t allow yourself to forget. It’s a part of you.”

Wasn’t it obvious? Draco said that he had gotten a teapot because he liked the shape of teapots. That was the clue to unlocking the rest of the riddle in his arm.

“Did you talk to Regulus?” Draco had moved his arm close to his chest and turned it over, hiding the morsmordre.

“No!” Harry leaned back, as if wanting to put distance between himself and that idea. “I don’t talk with Regulus about you! I don’t talk about you with anyone, but in any case what you said to him was private. I would never ask and he wouldn’t tell.”

Draco looked at him for a long time. Beautiful unreadable eyes that were very far away. He blinked and looked down and away, at the table and at his upper arm; anywhere but Harry. Harry hoped he hadn’t crossed a line. He knew that people didn’t like Harry figuring so much out without being told, but Draco had invited it, had said he could ask. It was just that in this case Harry didn’t need to ask.

“So you are more curious about the other drawings,” Draco said after clearing his voice.

“They tell me more about you,” Harry admitted. Even more than the trouser cuffs, although Harry didn’t say that; he might have a disaster for a mouth but he could see why admitting that he had been examining Draco’s cuffs would be weird. It had been a relief, though, finally figuring out why Draco was walking daily through a field.

“What’s that tower on the side?” asked Harry, feeling that he should move the topic along.

“That? Oh, that’s Merlin’s Tower.” Draco moved his arm so Harry could see better. “It’s near Brocéliande.”

Harry tried to hide his disappointment. Draco didn’t seem like one of those Merlin fanboys who were obsessed with the legendary figure and kept attributing impossible feats to him. Merlin fanboys were mostly harmless, but Harry had a certain contempt for them, perhaps because they reminded him of the enthusiastic Grindelwald and Voldemort lovers. He supposed most of them were just history buffs, but sometimes they got a bit too fervent in their passion, especially the collectors.

Draco had a gleam in his eyes and a dorky smile.

“Merlin never visited the place. The tower was built two centuries after his death by Aalis of the Raven Hair. It’s people just call it Merlin’s because everything has to be Merlin’s.”

Harry agreed with enthusiasm. Draco followed with a detailed and impassioned explanation of the history of the tower. Aalis had built it as a token of love for the lady Lusiane who was betrothed to a prince, although Draco thought it was more likely an English duke. Lusiane had been so impressed with the tower, and the other gifts Aalis had given her, that two days before she was due to leave to marry the prince she left her palace and went to Aalis instead. Of course the prince wasn’t very happy with it, nor was Lusiane’s family, but there wasn’t much they could do about it. The tower was tall and strong and Aalis was a powerful witch.

Aalis had passed into history as a cruel kidnapper of fair maidens. Certainly her characteristic raven locks didn’t help. For a while many a knight wanting to make a name for himself had tried to rescue Lusiane, with no success. The scorned prince had gone so far as to employ the services of a wizard, convinced that the fair Lusiane had been trapped with a spell.

But nothing succeeded and eventually both women had their hair turn white and there was no way to tell who was the wicked Aalis and who the sweet Lusiane.

“She _was_ wicked, you know,” Draco added, as it were the most joyful thing. “Seducing a count’s daughter.”

Harry laughed because it _was_ a joyful thing. He would like to visit the place someday, he told Draco, and salute those two women. Draco smiled and it was nice and tense in a good way.

It was late, though, so soon after they decided to call it a night. Draco wished him a good night and went upstairs to sleep, followed by Fenton who climbed the stairs at top speed.

Harry went to bed (actually a divan in the living room) with the feeling that at some point in the conversation they had talked about something else.

ooOoo

Regulus had a nightmare around midnight. Harry managed to help him without waking him up, sitting by his side and telling him in a murmur that he was doing well, leading Death Eaters to a trap; in a moment now the ground would open underneath them and they would fall very deep, far below the dungeons.

Harry had been awake; he had woken an hour or so before Regulus’ nightmare if he had fallen asleep at all. As often happens at night, his mind was active with dozens of thoughts. He also had the bothersome sensation that he was missing something.

While he got some pretty good ideas at night, some honestly brilliant and creative thoughts, it was also the time when the most ugly thoughts reared their heads and Harry would rather not deal with them. He forced himself to think of pleasant things, of the story Draco had shared about the two ladies, of Draco himself. Harry could think a lot about Draco.

Harry was a good detective. He was sharp and bright and knew how to make connections. Being a good fighter and knowledgeable in DADA helped in his Auror career, but that wasn’t all. There was investigating too, and he was good at it. Hence all the little things he had noticed about Draco which, together, made for a bigger thing. He still didn’t have the whole picture (what was with Draco and money? he didn’t seem to have any) but he had a pretty good outline.

However, Harry was good at reading others on their own. He wasn’t so good at reading them when _he_ was involved. He had known that Ron was having a bad time after his definite breakup with Hermione, for instance, but it took him by surprise when Ron turned against him after his breakup with Ginny. Harry forgot to account for himself when looking at others.

So he hadn’t exactly noticed, he hadn’t _seen_, while he was busy studying Draco, that Draco was changing around him.

He looked at it now. A slow process that culminated on this night, with Draco sleeping under his roof and telling him the story of Aalis of the Raven Hair. Draco had been contrary and uncooperative, and then he had agreed to help them more for Regulus and Fred’s sake than Harry’s. He had been distant and reserved and then… he hadn’t. They had joked, they had bantered. He had begun to answer Harry’s questions, he had asked a few questions of his own. Harry had been too distracted with Draco thoughts of a different quality (and then with grief and fear) to notice that Draco had opened up to him.

Harry was beginning to suspect that if he were to go and kiss Draco he might be rejected but he wouldn’t be punched in the face.

And that was…

Bad?

Why bad? Why did the ugly night-thoughts have to ruin everything? Why couldn’t he just lie down and dream of Draco under him, or over him, of his arms—white and multicolour, clutching Harry as he gasped?

Harry was an idiot. A _horny_ idiot which was the worst kind.

Harry liked Draco, he wanted Draco, and he thought Draco might want him back. Harry liked Draco—he was sure of it now—because Draco was funny and sarcastic and intelligent and kind despite himself. Harry might have first entertained the notion because of a dream brought on by so much time spent together, but now he wanted Draco, all of Draco, for himself.

And he wanted to be liked back. He wanted Draco to like him for himself, if there was something that Harry could offer. He didn’t want the crumbs of affection brought from days of cohabitation during a stressful situation. He wanted more and he wanted it to be real.

So Harry wouldn’t kiss Draco now, even if Draco came to him, and he was such an idiot.

“I don’t even know how to build a tower,” he said to the darkness.

“Turnips first, then powder,” answered Fred. He was probably asleep.

ooOoo

Regulus and Fred hadn’t woken up by the time Harry was ready to go. It was unusual and Harry would have worried if their breath wasn’t slow and even and their faces didn’t look so relaxed. They were a bit hot to the touch, but not enough to be considered a fever.

Harry felt strange as the door closed behind him. He had left the house before. Not two days ago he had gone to the back to pick up the groceries. He had gone to Luna’s cottage the day before that, to bury Kreacher. He still felt uncomfortable leaving now, even though the locked door was strong, Draco was there with a dog, and they knew to expect trouble. He still felt like the mother that leaves the cubs in the den to go hunting.

He looked at the house, examining every piece of the façade. The curtains in the living room moved a bit, just a small channel for the sun to go through. Harry crossed the street and looked at the house from there one more time before taking a deep breath and disapparating to Diagon Alley. It was beginning to rain, the drizzle from the night before growing into a proper pour.

Something stood in the space between the droplets of water. Something that began to move the moment Harry vanished from the street.

ooOoo

Harry had never liked Garrick Ollivander. He was creepy.

It probably wasn’t his fault; he probably just had a weird way of staring. Harry knew that he also got a strange look when he was observing someone. He still didn’t like Ollivander.

“M_i_ster Potter,” called the old man as Harry entered his shop. There was no one around. People bought wands in August, before going to Hogwarts, maybe a bit earlier if they were in a wizarding family. Late November wasn’t a good month for the wand-making business, even with the Yule and Christmas festivities approaching.

“Hello, Mister Ollivander. It’s good to see you,” lied Harry. He came forward smiling widely. He cut a very different figure from the little orphan in hand-me-down clothes who had first entered the shop. He was now tall and fit and dressed richly if not flashily.

“I don’t suppose you are here wanting to change your wand,” said Ollivander and there it was, the glint in the eye. It made Harry’s skin crawl.

“No! Not at all.” Harry smiled again but said nothing about the virtues of his wand. The conversation was going to be hard enough and Ollivander got really weird when talking about wand characteristics. “I wanted to— ”

“Eleven inches, phoenix feather and holly.”

“Yes. Your memory is intact, I see. That’s wonderful.”

Ollivander straightened and looked very pleased as he told Harry the characteristics of Voldemort’s wand. The terrible but powerful things it could do.

“Yes,” Harry said again, and spoke quickly before Ollivander could begin with the wand connection again. “I wanted to ask you about a wand. Maybe you can identify it?”

He took from his pocket the golden wand the impostor had dropped. Ollivander looked at it greedily while Harry held it in his hands.

“Need help with a case?” he asked cautiously.

“No. At least I don’t think so.” Harry had the next part of his story prepared and he hoped he was right about his impression that it wasn’t a modern wand. “I was doing some in-depth cleaning of the house and found it at the back of a drawer. I don’t think it had been opened in years. I wondered who it belonged to.”

He extended his hands, presenting the wand like an ancient acolyte would offer the druid a baby for the sacrifice.

“It’s so difficult,” Harry said, as if he were speaking the words to a ritual, “with two wars so close together. People just disappear and no one is left to remember.”

Ollivander wasn’t looking at him. The weird gleam had totally taken over his face.

“Six inches, golden oak. Mmh, very unusual choice.”

He suddenly lifted his eyes and stared at Harry intently as if he expected to see a lie written in his face. Then he looked back down and carefully took the wand from Harry’s hands. He turned it this way and the other and flicked it, murmured a few words and levitated a piece of paper off the counter.

“Core of unicorn hair.”

Harry nodded, as if he too could see it and agreed that it obviously was unicorn hair.

“Good for consistent work. It avoids blockage with advanced charms. Faithful and solid although it won’t take you to greatness unless you take the harshest and most difficult path.”

Okay. Harry didn’t care all that much. Dragon heartstring was supposed to go with people with an affinity for the dark arts. And who had dragon string in her wand? Hermione, that’s who. Harry was of the opinion that one shouldn’t judge the wizard by his wand. Harry had very positive qualities in his wand, holly and phoenix feather, and he still felt like he could murder certain people in the Ministry without blinking.

Ollivander looked some more at the wand and made some tests. Measured the width and length and looked at the ornate handle with a magnifying glass. Two magnifying glasses, actually.

“Excellent facture. Attention to form over function. The curve here is called a swan’s handle. This is a lady’s wand from the turn of the century. From the workshop of Gavin Ollivander.”

Harry looked at him pleasantly and waited but Ollivander wasn’t saying anything else.

“Is there any way to know the owner’s identity…?” he said at last.

There was, but it entailed listening to a twenty-minute dissertation on wand evolution first, followed by fifteen minutes of the wandmaking tradition of the Ollivander family and yet another twenty minutes on the petty fights and arguments and grudges of the family. Harry’s feet were tired.

Gavin Ollivander was the uncle of Garrick’s father. He could have just said that he was the brother of his grandmother, but apparently mentioning a woman’s name was too much to ask of an Ollivander. Gavin, being male, should have inherited the business. But he didn’t have any heirs whereas his sister (no name given) had plenty of children. It seemed that there had been a fight at some point between Gavin and Gerald, Garrick’s father, over the direction of the shop and wandmaking style. Gavin had left the place sometime before the 1930s.

Harry had the urge to grab one of the wands, for Garrick had taken many wands out of their boxes to show Harry the evident differences of style and workmanship, and stick it into his ear so he could stop listening.

At last he got Garrick to go and look in the bloody archives for the description of the wand Harry had brought. He offered him tea, which Harry rejected because he might throw it to Garrick’s face. He was thirsty, though, and needed to piss and sit down and just leave that place and have five minutes of silence.

“There it is!” cried Garrick. “Ah, no, water oak. We want golden oak. Golden oak, golden oak, eleven, ten, eleven, twelve! You don’t see twelve-inch wands often, now I have always thought…”

Harry left one ear to listen in case Garrick said anything important (unlikely) and zoned out. The rest of his mind and body dedicated itself to more pleasant thoughts, like the graceful way in which Draco held a pencil or a wand and how his hand would look wrapped around—

“Six inches, golden oak, unicorn hair.”

Harry was back to attention, looking at Garrick’s face in case there was something important in his expression. He also read the little card Garrick was holding.

“Sold to Rebecca Isobel Nott, age eleven, on the day of her birthday, April 10th 1902.”

_Finally_.

Still, Harry had to stay fifteen more minutes in the shop before being able to leave for good. He walked briskly down the street and entered the first alley he saw so he could stand there and bask in the silence. The morning rain had turned to almost but not quite snow. The streets had an awful sludge and his feet were getting cold.

He took a few breaths, deep, cold, calming, and looked wistfully at the café across the street. He would like to go there, order something sugary and sit at a table by the window to watch the world go by. Instead he was going back to the glum of Grimmauld Place and the sorrow and death that was there. To the stress and fear that something horrible would happen.

To Fenton and Draco.

He allowed himself one little detour, something that was for the others as much as it was for himself. Harry entered Exquisite & Decadent and dropped a whole galleon on bath supplies of all colours and smells. He thought that Fred might particularly enjoy the one called Luscious Strawberry.

ooOoo

Harry knocked twice on the door to let them know he had returned before letting himself inside.

Draco was there with his wand in his hand, pointed at Harry, his left hand on Fenton’s neck. Fenton had his tail up and was stretching his neck, trying to get out of his master’s grasp and get close to Harry and the interesting bag full of smells he had brought.

There was more. Harry was intimately familiar with the house, with the dark foyer, with the labyrinth made of heaps of stuff. It was hard to see because it was nothing more than a patch of darkness different from the other darkness, but he was pretty sure that Fred was standing near the door with the fire poker.

He looked at Fenton. The dog had his mouth open in a grin and was still wagging his tail.

“What?” he said, alarmed. “Oh, dear. All right. Mmh. Catching the snitch with your mouth is perfectly acceptable. Suck it up, Draco. You grabbed my broomstick.”

Draco open his grip on Fenton’s collar and allowed the dog to get to Harry. Harry immediately crouched and patted the dog on his neck, head, side. He was a really nice dog and he ought to be petted and patted everywhere. He still had really cute ears.

After a cursory sniff of Harry’s shoes and hands (Harry agreed they were the body parts that carried the most information) and a quick sniff at his crotch (um), Fenton turned to the bag, putting his head inside and sniffing all the bottles.

“Harry, do you mind telling me about that first year detention in the Forbidden Forest?”

Harry smiled and had to choke back a laugh like he always did when someone mentioned that stupid forest of terror. He had seen so many frightful things in there that they cancelled each other out. Giant spiders and unicorn-drinking shadows and aggressive centaurs and Voldemort. It was ridiculous.

“We made fun of you because your father’s money got you on the Quidditch team, but you were pretty good,” he said standing up and gently pushing Fenton away from the bag. “Now, why are you all so tense? I don’t know if you noticed, but _I let myself in_.”

They were tense because not five minutes after Harry had left something had tried to get inside. Fenton had showed his excellent hunting drive and began to bark, loud and angry, scratching the wall under the living room window. They weren’t sure what it had been. Fred said he had seen a faint grey shadow between the droplets of rain. Regulus said that he didn’t really see anything, but if he closed his eyes he thought he could point at a presence by the sound of its footsteps.

Draco didn’t see or hear anything and he was all the more freaked out for it. He just saw his dog going crazy, short hair standing on end and lips rolled up in a snarl as Fenton growled like a creature three times his size.

Then there had been a _nothing_, an absence felt by everyone even though there had been nothing tangible before. Fenton had scampered out of the room and to the kitchen’s stairs where he resumed his barking and growling.

“I couldn’t see _anything_!” Draco said, opening his eyes wide. He looked scared. For the first time, he looked scared.

There was just a small and dirty window on the service door and Draco had peered through it and seen nothing even as he felt the wooden door shaking under him and could hear the strain of the rusted hinges under Fenton’s barks. There had been something pushing against that door, trying to force it open. Draco repeated it three or four times. There had been something prying the door open.

He just hadn’t seen anything.

“It was like when you used the invisibility cloak,” said Draco and Harry couldn’t help the instinctual alarm he felt at hearing him mention the cloak. Draco had known about it for a while, of course, but still, it made Harry feel suddenly vulnerable.

He also had a warm and tingly sensation in his chest from the way Draco mentioned it. Casual and easy, as if he suddenly were very close, inside the circle of Harry’s arms.

“It was like that, but not that. I could hear you move under the cloak. I learned to feel your presence. I sensed none of that this morning. I heard the creaks of the door, but not whatever was pushing it.”

They couldn’t tell Harry much more about it. It had probably gone on for an hour and the presence had been at the windows of the living room, the back door and then the front door. Maybe the windows of the dining room, too, they weren’t sure because halfway to there Regulus had suddenly dropped to the floor and had a big bad seizure from which he was still recovering. He might be paralysed on his left side. No, they weren’t sure. Yes, they had checked but they weren’t sure, the implication being that Regulus _was _paralysed but they didn’t want to admit it so they were waiting for Harry in gentle denial.

Regulus’ hair was wet and matted from the foamy spit that had fallen in it, even if his face had been washed. Harry kneeled by his side and asked Regulus how he was in a tender tone, all the more tender because Harry was now a big man, tall and muscular. There is something reassuring when a big strong man acts kind-hearted, a reversal of violence.

“How about a bath? Do you feel like taking a bath?”

Regulus did. Harry, who was kind but strict, made him use his words instead of a simple nod. 

Harry carried Regulus upstairs in his arms. He lay him carefully on the floor while the bathtub filled and got him the new soap and shampoo selection. Regulus liked the one with sweet peas.

Fred came into the bathroom because he was suddenly afraid of being away from Regulus, although he didn’t say so. Draco came because he was the one who helped Fred climb the stairs. Fenton came soon after simply because everyone else was there.

By the time they were back down and Regulus smelled of sweet peas and his hair had violet, blackberry and wild orchid in it, he was speaking more, although slowly. He could move both his left arm and leg, but the leg didn’t support his weight and he could only lift his arm with difficulty. He was more animated though and looked quite pleased with his hair.

(So glossy. Harry could understand.)

“Did you learn anything?” asked Draco. His hair was very nice, too. He had put it a high ponytail, but some strands had come loose to frame his face. Harry wondered how it would look out of the ponytail, if it would surround his head like a lion’s mane or if it would hang like Regulus’ silk drape.

“About the wand,” added Draco, perhaps noticing Harry’s lost expression.

“Oh, yes, yes.”

Harry told them. He only needed a minute, and half of it was to complain about Ollivander’s excessive chattering. Six inches, golden oak and unicorn hair, sold to Rebecca Isobel Nott on 1902.

“She looked positively springy for a hundred-year-old witch,” Regulus said, remembering how the fake Luna had scrambled away from Harry’s wand.

“I don’t think it was her,” said Harry, but right away he admitted, “I don’t know. I know nothing about her. It’s just, if we are dealing with a powerful hundred-year-old witch, you would think she would have showed up sooner. During Grindelwald or Voldemort.” 

“She might have. You never struck me like someone who knew much about wizarding history,” said Draco.

“I don’t. But if it’s related to the dark arts, I pick things up,” answered Harry. She might have escaped his attention, but, come on. How likely was that? He knew about dark wizards who had died long before Voldemort began his ascension to power.

He turned to Draco. “Have you heard of her?”

“No. Not right away.” He looked down at the floor, deep in concentration. “I might have something, but she certainly wasn’t famous.”

“Your friend Nott, perhaps?”

Draco tilted his head. “Perhaps. But it would have to be from his mother’s side.”

On his mother’s side… So Theodore Nott would have at least two grandparents with the same last name. Not impossible.

“Do you know who would know everything about that witch?” Fred said, lifting his index finger and sounding _quite_ chirpy. It was either the scare from early in the morning or he was drunk from the floral whiffs coming out of Regulus’ hair.

He took a few seconds before revealing who was that tower of wisdom who could instantly tell them everything there was to know about Rebecca Nott.

“Aunt Muriel.”

“_Hel-rlin No_!” answered Harry, Draco and Regulus at once. They looked at each other in surprise and promptly burst into laughter at their shared horror. Fenton jumped up and brought his toy, and Draco tugged at it without looking.

“She said I looked completely hapless,” Harry said with difficulty, his chest still moving with laughter. “And as soon as she saw Hermione she said she had skinny ankles and bad posture.”

“I can’t attest to the ankles, but she does have bad posture,” Draco said, the asshole.

“She said I was the runt my parents were stuck with,” confessed Regulus. “And that at least it was better than being known as the ugly one. Super unfair because Sirius was twelve at the time and hadn’t grown into his face yet. I couldn’t be known as the ugly one because there was no pretty one yet.” The next words were like poison oozing from a cursed wound and they reminded Harry of Kreacher. “Mother _laughed_. I don’t think I have heard her laugh more than ten times in my life. Although Portia’s only son had just passed so she was on good spirits.”

“Muriel called my mother a frigid and barren witch,” Draco added. “She was invited to my christening and apparently she said I looked like an ugly marshmallow. She said it was a pity Father didn’t have a natural son to inherit.”

“I am not going to ask her,” Harry said, still with that giddy feeling after laughing at a horrible thing. Like casting _riddikulus_ and seeing your boggart humiliated. “I draw the line at that. Ollivander was more than enough. I know when something is too big for me to bite.”

Draco and Fred scoffed. Regulus grabbed his left arm with his right to put his left hand over his forehead with difficulty. “_I_ am too sickly and weak to leave this sofa.”

“Don’t look at me. I am a Slytherin pariah with an awful reputation,” Draco said, smiling still but with a new distance in his grey eyes, as if he had suddenly retreated a few yards. “She wouldn’t let me get anywhere near the house.”

“It’s settled then,” Fred said, mock serious. “We send Luna.”

Of course Luna might forget what she had gone there for and return with information about something else, but she seemed like one of the few creatures capable of resisting Muriel’s pungency.

ooOoo

“No, I don’t think so,” said Luna that night, to general surprise. Luna was so agreeable! It was easy to think she would be amenable to anything.

“I saw her at your brother’s Bill wedding,” she said, “and she said that I looked like a feral werechild.”

“Had you brushed your hair?” asked Draco drily. Luna hit him with her napkin right away. Regulus looked like he was trying to throw something at Draco, too, but his left arm was still practically useless and he had a spoon in his right hand.

“And at a party two years later, I think it was the war anniversary, she said I was inadequate and unaccomplished. I hadn’t even spoken to her.”

There was a general bristling in the room because nobody liked hearing that someone had picked on Luna. Draco seemed to be of the opinion that his family relations and his status allowed him to be a bit of an asshole, but no one else had that privilege. He even muttered that Luna might have taken years to accomplish proper hair care, but she was accomplished in many other things.

“Draco, maybe you should go,” tried Harry again, because it made a lot of sense. Draco agreed with half of the things Muriel said and he was a Slytherin, he was bound to know how to manipulate old ladies to get information.

“I assure you, she likes me the least of all. She wouldn’t even open her door for me.”

“But you… I mean, you were never sentenced to anything,” Harry said because he wasn’t such a fool as to forget Draco’s past and understand why some people might be less than happy to see him. But you had to draw a line somewhere and unlike many others, even Draco’s own classmates, Draco had escaped scot-free. Harry should know. He had been there, had helped him get the exonerating sentence.

“Nevertheless,” Draco said with finality. Harry let the topic drop. Not everyone had been there, kneeling in a grand ballroom with a marble floor. Not everyone had seen the way Draco avoided his eyes, the deliberate way he glanced at his face avoiding the scar so he could convince himself that he didn’t know if the boy in front of him was Harry Potter.

How ugly it had been, the year right after the war. Harry had thought naïvely that once Voldemort went down everything would be better. Instead he had seen people mad with pain lash out full of rage.

Parkinson had spent a year and a half in prison and two years on probation and could count herself lucky. Harry thought Parkinson was a bitch, and he didn’t use the word lightly, but she was not a Death Eater. Harry had seen Death Eaters up close before, during and after the war, and it was insulting and demeaning to compare them. Was Parkinson a bad person? Absolutely. Had she abused her power in the last year at Hogwarts? Harry didn’t know, but Ginny said she did and he believed her. Did she deserve to be taken down a peg? Oh, yes.

Had she tortured and maimed and murdered? Had she taken wands, imprisoned innocent people, given up names?

No. She had insulted other girls and made them give her their things. She had cut off one of the Patil twin’s hair.

It was not the same.

But whenever Harry said anything like that people heard that he was saying she was a good person, which she was not, _she was not_, but they didn’t want to listen further. He wanted to grab their heads and shake them and make them _see_.

It was not the same. It couldn’t be the same.

If Pansy went to Azkaban for ten years, like some people said she should, how long should actual torturer Goyle go? How long for Umbridge? Avery? MacNair?

She was bad, but not _as_ bad, never _as_ bad. Saying that she was as bad as a murderer meant that a murderer was as bad as a petty and cruel teenage girl. That Garner who had killed twelve people was as bad as she was; that Walden who raped a muggle woman before killing her in front of her wizard husband was as bad as Parkinson who cut off Padma Patil’s hair.

(Maybe she was. Maybe Parkinson had the potential for all that cruelty. But she hadn’t acted on it, not yet, maybe not ever.)

It made Harry sick to his stomach.

So Draco was probably right and he still wouldn’t get even a cold welcome. He was supposed to be rejected, like everyone else.

Dinner was good. Hot and salty enough to take away the bitter taste those thoughts brought to Harry’s tongue. Luna had said it was from a goblin café in Diagon Alley and everybody had taken a step back, but it was actually pretty good and even Regulus and Fred had tried a bit.

(Fenton had begged and gotten the rest of Fred’s portion in less than three minutes. He had devoured it in half that time and then immediately begged for more. Draco laughed and said that’s why he told them not to give him anything.)

So they had dinner while they told Luna everything. The good thing about Luna was that you could tell her anything and she would wait until you were done before expressing any reaction, including shock. So she heard the story of the morning attack (shock and fear), Regulus’ seizure (concern manifested in clutching his useless left hand), Harry’s visit to Ollivander (interest) and their idea of asking Auntie Muriel about Rebecca Nott (complete rejection if it meant her going).

ooOoo

“Oi, Luna! Look what we can do.”

Harry frowned at Regulus and specially Fred, who was the one that had called for Luna’s attention. Everyone had to wait a long time because first they had to get upright, and grab their wands, and sit together and then decide that they would rather stand up only Regulus found that difficult so he had to rest against something.

At last they were side by side with Regulus resting part of his weight against a small table. They took their wands and simultaneous said _Tân_. Two flames burst out of the tip of the wands.

“Ready? Look.”

They pointed their wands down and then flicked them up, making the flame jump in the air before being caught again by the wand.

“Oooh,” said Luna, smiling. She didn’t look particularly impressed, but what counted was the smile.

“Hop, hop, hop, hop,” they said as the flames jumped or, indeed, hopped in place, higher and higher until they were very high and Regulus and Fred had time to cast again, getting a second flame and sending it up before the first one fell down to the wand’s tip.

“When exactly did you learn to do this?”

Fred shrugged, but didn’t move his eyes off the wand. “Afternoon while you were in the library.”

Oh, yes, Harry had spent _five_ hours in the library seeing if he could find anything on Rebecca Nott _and_ creatures as strong as the one he had fought. Since Draco was only in there for an hour being a terrible distraction Harry had done a lot of work.

“Is this why you wouldn’t help?” he hissed to Draco anyway.

“You might have noticed that the room didn’t burn down.”

Harry took six seconds to answer. Regulus and Fred were trying to get both flames high enough to cast a third one.

“If I move that chest back to where it was, am I going to find a scorch mark?”

“Damn,” Fred muttered, losing a bit of concentration and therefore his opportunity to get a third flame. “He’s good.”

“I was checking on them, as you asked me to,” Draco answered coolly. He was smiling, though. One of those beautiful smiles he so seldom let them see.

“To be fair, he was mostly playing with Fenton,” Regulus said, eyes up on the flames that were about to touch the ceiling.

At the mention of his name Fenton got up and Draco said it was time to take him for a walk. He left before Harry was able to properly show his indignation.

Harry knew the trick too, and he could do it better, making the flame jump to his hand, putting it in his mouth and spitting it back. He had wanted to show Draco, but now it would look stupid.

One of the flames finally reached the ceiling and Harry used it as an excuse to extinguish them all. 

ooOoo

“There is a Rebecca in the family tree,” Regulus said much later that night, long after Draco and Fenton had returned and everybody but Harry was getting ready to go to sleep.

Harry was getting ready to strangle someone.

“It didn’t occur to me until now,” Regulus said hurriedly at Harry’s expression. “It’s probably there on the tapestry. Might be a daughter. Sometimes second and third daughters didn’t get star names.

“I was going to be called Clytemnestra,” said Luna, already changed into her sleeping clothes (they couldn’t exactly be called pyjamas). “But Mum really liked the star names.”

“Luna isn’t a star name,” Fred pointed out, and looked at Harry for confirmation. Fred might not have paid much attention in Astronomy.

“No, but.” And here Luna did something strange and unexpected. She lowered her voice and looked quickly over her shoulder. They were all there except Draco who had insisted on washing the dishes. “Apparently Lucius threw a fit because star names are a Black thing and Malfoys get good, old, Classic names.”

They shared a look between all of them.

“And evidently Narcissa didn’t care what Lucius thought, so he was very adamant that _someone_ follow tradition. Mum was very happy when she thought of my name.”

How strange it was, to hear Luna speak of that mother who was sweet and caring and brilliant, to hear her speak of her relation to the Malfoys, of Lucius having a fit because he lost to his wife and almost lost to his cousin too.

“It’s a good name,” Harry said. “And Draco’s too.” He had never thought about it, but it must have caused a bit of a stir, Draco’s name.

“What is?” asked Draco, coming then to the living room.

“Your name,” Luna said.

Draco rolled his eyes as if it were an old topic, as if he were used to hearing many variations and dozens of recriminations every day because “I let you choose the name, Narcissa! Let me choose this, _I let you choose his name_.”

ooOoo

Harry didn’t like working on no sleep because he knew that eventually he would crash. And yet, he hadn’t gone to bed. He would sleep in the morning, he thought. There were _two_ other people to take care of emergencies and a very nice dog to warn them if there was danger.

Currently said dog was lying on the stairs, looking at Harry as he studied the tapestry with the light of a _lumos_. A while ago Harry had heard Regulus ask Luna what was she reading before bed, but that was when he was far on the left of the tapestry, in the line of the six Georges. Six. So far there was no Rebecca in sight, but he hadn’t even gotten back to the familiar lines of Sirius and Regulus, the ones Harry searched with his eyes almost every time he went past them.

Harry got to the first Rebbeca, or possibly Rebheca, twenty minutes later. She had preceded the one Rebecca Harry was looking for by fifty years. Harry stopped there for a second, sighed heavily and then decided to sit by Fenton. It might be that she was the only Rebecca there was in the family. If that were the case, he would have to get some of those old volumes of _Who is Who_ in the wizarding elite. Even then he would end up having to go to Muriel and she would make sure to tell every living Weasley about it and Harry didn’t feel like lying to Ron or Ginny but he also couldn’t tell them about Fred when only a day ago he had gone temporarily blind. He couldn’t do that to them, give them something only to snatch it back.

He kept thinking about all the grey that appeared quickly and suddenly in Mrs Weasley’s hair after Fred died. She couldn’t see him die again.

“All right, Fenton. Can you find me a Rebecca?” Fenton lifted his ears but didn’t move from his step. Harry resumed the search, past the Vegas (male and female) and Cassiopeias and quite a few Januses and then, so high that the light of the _lumos_ barely reached it, _Rebecca Isobel Black, née Nott, Slughorn (wd)_.

Harry wasn’t proud to say that it took him quite a while to figure out why there were so many surnames and what _wd_ meant. He even asked Fenton for his opinion, but Fenton’s opinion was that he should bump Harry’s knee with his nose and get some pets.

Harry decided that it probably meant “widow” if only because Rebecca had married Perseus Pluto Black at the comparatively late age of twenty-eight.

Considering it was only his second day on the case Harry had already learned a lot, but it still felt like too little. He had a name and some dates on a tapestry when he needed the story of a life.

She had been born in 1891. She had married and lost her husband and she had married again in 1919.

Fenton suddenly rose from his place and looked up. Soon after Draco appeared at the top of the stairs.

“What are you— ? Harry, go to bed.”

“I found her,” he said. He felt as if the dusty portrait made of thread would disappear if he turned to look at Draco. He made a circle of white, not white light or white chalk or white powder, just a circle of white that floated gently up to the portrait. Very useful to mark down evidence without touching anything.

Draco descended five steps. Fenton immediately climbed the two steps that separated them and sat next to him.

“1922,” read Draco. Rebecca had died just three years after her marriage to Perseus. Harry’s story could have been true after all—he could have found her wand in the house. The couple didn’t have any children.

Perseus had married again a few years later and sired three children, one of whom died at fifteen. The others grew up to adulthood and the boy married a Weasley girl.

They stood there in silence for a minute as if paying tribute to that woman who had died too soon. Childless. Forgotten.

Harry had expected her to be dead, but not so soon, not when Grindelwald was barely beginning to stir up trouble. Dead, but not without a child to inherit her wand and use it or at least grow addicted to pixie dust and sell it for ten knuts and let the wand enter the black market.

Maybe one of Perseus’ children had found the wand and sold it. In that case it would be impossible to track its more recent owner.

Fenton climbed the rest of the stairs, apparently bored with the two men standing in silence. Harry could hear his happy quick steps on the wood floors, tracing the dog’s path to Draco’s bedroom.

“We will think about this tomorrow,” said Draco, sounding oddly awake. “Let’s go to bed.”

He turned around and began to do just that. Fenton had left the bedroom and retraced his steps to see what was keeping Draco, waiting for him in the middle of the corridor with his tail wagging. The moment he saw Draco near the top of the stairs Fenton gave a little jump and ran back to the bedroom.

Draco followed Fenton and Harry followed Draco thinking wistfully about the way he had said “let’s go to bed” and how Harry wished it had meant something else.

They exchanged good nights as Draco entered his room and Harry took the second flight of stairs to his own. Good night indeed. Between the melancholy of seeing Rebecca’s early death and the thrill of hearing Draco call him to bed, he wasn’t going to sleep any time soon.

ooOoo

Indeed.

Harry was exhausted. His mind was tired, his body was reasonably tired, his mouth was dry and he felt too hot while his feet were cold.

He couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t even thoughts of Draco keeping him awake. He just couldn’t sleep. He wished it were just Fantasy Draco in his mind because if Harry was going to be awake he would like to have pleasant thoughts keeping him up. Instead it was a mix of thoughts and impressions and memories and he would rather not have Draco in them.

When Harry thought about the way Draco’s eyes lit up after telling a joke or the shade of pink in his stupid lips when he was saying something smart; when he thought about how he moved and how he stayed and how he leaned and how he rested, it was something self-contained. Harry didn’t want anything else interrupting those thoughts. Especially his observations about Draco’s everyday life.

There was a Real Draco who was the brilliant bastard helping him and then there was a Fantasy Draco who was soft and pliable and very happy to kiss Harry and touch him and be touched. They were separate entities and if Harry allowed them to touch then he found the thoughts mixing like watercolours. Then he found himself thinking about Draco’s daily walks through a field and Harry imagined him there, under the shaded light from the trees, he imagined himself there, guiding Draco down gently and undressing him and taking him right there in a bed of clover. It was one thing to have horny fantasies that were easy to dismiss, and another to bring a base of reality to the mix. Thinking about Fantasy Draco was fine. Well, no, not _fine_, but Harry could justify it because Fantasy Draco didn’t mind and was, in fact, quite happy to participate. Thinking about the Real Draco, however, with his mysterious real life, and fantasising about all the dirty stuff Harry wanted to do was rude. An intromission in Draco’s private life. 

But the fantasy thoughts were leaking into reality. Harry would be sitting next to Draco, discussing something from a book, and be overcome with the want to kiss him. Just grab his face and kiss him, steal a kiss for himself like the cheeky witch of Draco’s story had done. The one with the tower.

So when Harry’s mind was altered, like tonight, it was better not to think of Draco at all. It was bad enough that the Real Draco interfered with the Fantasy, Harry didn’t need any extra interference. He didn’t want to know what would happen if those thoughts got mixed with, say, Garrick Ollivander’s creepy face.

He had thought, just for a second, about Rebecca Nott. About the tragedy of a life summarised in a few lines. About how pureblood families married young and by arrangement. Just a second, that’s all he thought, and Harry had gotten a full purple novel about him and Draco having an arranged married and a wedding night.

“I know what my duty is,” the Fantasy Draco would say, scowling, once they were alone in their room. He would have removed his jacket, but he would have a shirt and waistcoat still.

“I don’t want you to take it as a duty, dammit!” Fantasy Harry would answer because even in a late-night fantasy Harry had to be a noble idiot and try to seduce Draco over the following weeks until he gave in, trembling with lust, and climbed on top of Harry and there really was no point to this, was there?

After putting a pillow over his face and hitting himself repeatedly Harry got up and went to the bathroom to get a sleeping potion. It had been a while since he last needed them, thank Merlin, so the potion had a bit of a dense texture. But it should work and send him into a dreamless sleep; it might not be very restful but honestly, given his state of mind and the long talk about wands that morning, Harry didn’t want to risk it. Wands had a very obvious shape and it was a matter of time before he came up with something.

ooOoo

Harry woke up late feeling if not rested, righted. It wasn’t the good natural sleep but it was enough that his mind didn’t have the drain of exhaustion. Enough that he could deal with the weirdness of his life.

It started with the first floor bathroom, which had the door half open and a chagrined Draco inside helping Fred take a bath while also trying not to help.

Fred was trying the melon scented soap. He was very excited about how well they had mimicked the smell. He called to Harry to come sniff it and when he didn’t immediately go, threw a bit of lather in his direction.

Draco had a wet splotch on his sweater (the pale blue one) so Harry suspected Fred might have thrown lather at him too.

Luna was still in the house, so there really was no need for Harry to check five times that the door was properly closed and the wards were up, nor did he need to peer out the windows in case an invisible presence was trying to sneak in. At this point, having rested and with the light of the morning, it was tempting to think that yesterday’s scare had merely been the wind and the stress. Even Regulus’ paralysis had waned. He merely had severe muscle weakness on his left side now. That and blood.

Luna was dabbing at Regulus’ face with a handkerchief to remove the dried blood there. Apparently he had begun to bleed from his eyes and nose and from the root of his nails. Luna, however, assured him that it wasn’t that much blood and there was nothing to worry about and Regulus did not look like Godfrey of Cranborne _at all_.

Evidently Regulus didn’t share the sentiment. He looked crestfallen and whatever the opposite of _alight_ was. As if an inner switch had been turned off. Harry thought it might be simply bashfulness about his appearance. Regulus always tried to look his best, but more so around Luna. And he did look like that picture of Godfrey of Cranborne that used to hang on the first floor. Harry couldn’t remember who all the other people in the paintings were, besides Walburga and Phineas of course, but by Merlin he remembered Godfrey and his wan sickly face.

“See? That’s all well now.” Luna smiles like the sunrise, soft and subtle and pink. “Oh, hello Harry!”

“Good morning, Luna,” greeted Harry. “Here, throw it in the basket,” he added, as he saw her look around for a place to put the bloody handkerchief. “Have you had breakfast?”

She had, because she had woken up early, but she wouldn’t be opposed to having a second cup of tea with the others. So Harry went to prepare breakfast and took the laundry basket with him to get all the towels and handkerchiefs cleaned.

Fred made them all sniff his hair once he and Draco came down for breakfast. It smelled like melon, there was no arguing with that. Fred was so ridiculously happy about it he even bent down so Fenton could sniff his hair.

Fenton wasn’t very interested. He used the distraction to steal Harry’s bacon.

“Fenton!” cried Draco. Fenton startled and ran away to hide between Regulus’ legs. “I am so sorry. He is usually much better behaved. He knows he shouldn’t do that. You know you can’t grab things from the table.”

Fenton looked like he knew, but hadn’t been able to resist on account of being a dog. Draco called him to his side and Fenton went, tail between his legs and ears hanging sadly.

“That was bad,” Draco said in a stern voice, but he also petted Fenton, one long stroke from his head down his neck and back. The dog sat down and stayed next to Draco like some sort of sphynx.

ooOoo

Harry insisted on accompanying Luna to her cottage. It wasn’t needed. She would step out of Grimmauld Place and apparate right next to the fence around her land. Still Harry wanted to see her to the door and the others shared that irrational need. She was the one coming and going, she was the one going to a place that had been unattended at night. It was good that the former Auror went with her.

Sevila, the mad vulture, hissed and clucked at Harry in warm greeting, although to the uneducated ear it sounded like the vulture wanted to devour him. A couple of thestrals came trotting down to them and sniffed Harry thoroughly. A young female stared at Harry unnervingly before nuzzling him in the chest. She had amazing midnight eyes and Harry thought that it was unfair to be able to see them only when you knew death, but it was also a sort of reward. They were terrible and ugly and so beautiful. They were ugly and beautiful at the same time.

Harry wondered how Fenton would interact with them. It might be like whenever the _Ruff!_ dog met a magical creature. That would be fun to see. He would have to bring Draco here, though, or agree to meet here and they would walk on the thestral field, getting grass on their shoes, and the wind would toss Draco’s long hair…

“Everything seems in order,” Harry said, petting the thestral mare one last time.

“All right, Harry,” Luna said, smiling. “Don’t worry about me. Remember I was in Dumbledore’s Army. I know how to defend myself.”

The sad thing was that even today that was probably true. In just a few months Harry had managed to provide them with better DADA education than anyone else in years.

“I hope the spiders are doing well,” she said, opening the door to the cottage. Harry choked a laugh because Luna had a kissable rosebud mouth, a pink mouth of pouty lips, and she said the damnest things with it.

He said his goodbyes, expressed his best wishes for the spiders, and stepped outside the fence. In ten seconds he was back at Grimmauld Place, being greeted by Fenton.

Draco wanted to leave just then, to walk Fenton. He also wanted to take a longer walk, let Fenton run in a park. Harry had nothing to say about it. Fenton and Draco should walk as much as they wanted to. Draco linked the chain to Fenton’s collar, black with vivid magenta on the borders, and left.

Harry was going to quickly go down to the kitchen, wash the dishes, look at the pantry to see what he should do for lunch and dinner, and run back up. But, for whatever reason—completely unrelated to the invisible presence that yesterday tried to break into the house, of course—Regulus and Fred insisted they wanted to go down with him. This meant that Harry would stay longer down there, maybe even start with some food preparations, because moving them up and down the stairs was a pain. Today Fred seemed to be able to move unassisted pretty well, but Harry still had to grab him because at any time he might go dizzy or lose the strength in his legs, like the other day. Regulus was still dragging his left leg, which worried Harry a lot, and his left arm wasn’t much help either. He should have recovered by now.

Since the three of them were there Harry got started with cooking some rice. He also began the process of casting _tergeo_ on the towels and napkins, one by one. Regulus and Fred took the opportunity to practice the little fire spell Harry had taught them, arguing before Harry could say anything that the walls and ceiling were stone and already stained with smoke so they should be free to try new tricks, like flicking the flame at a wall. Fred even managed to shape the flame into a dragon and then flick it at Harry’s head.

And since they were down in the stone kitchen, which only had a small window up in the wall, none of them saw the figure that stood on the pavement. Although they probably wouldn’t have seen it if they had stayed in the living room. Draco hadn’t seen it when he left the house and briefly looked down the street. But the figure had been pretty far then, far enough not to draw the attention of a dog.

It was right before the steps of the house now. Standing. Looking. Studying everything about the house and seething with anger because this was taking too long already.

ooOoo

Harry was still down in the kitchen when Draco knocked on the door, so after letting him and Fenton in and checking his identity (there was no doubt about Fenton) he had to hurry downstairs to check on Regulus and Fred.

It was a good thing too, because in that short interval Fred had vomited a small but long stream of blood. Thankfully, he had managed to avoid the laundry basket and aim at the floor. Regulus was ignoring the thin string of blood coming from his right ear, stubbornly playing with a small flame even though he looked even more tired than he had been at breakfast.

Harry fished a recently-cleaned handkerchief from the basket and handed it to Fred so he could clean his mouth.

“I am so tired of this,” whispered Fred. He passed the handkerchief back to Harry and as he went to clean it he realized that it was actually one of the old napkins. It had the crest of the Black family embroidered in a corner and under it the initials of the owner P. R. B.

Harry looked at it for a second while he prepared two cups of chamomile tea for Regulus and Fred. Of course Regulus sourly reminded him that he wasn’t the one vomiting blood but Harry and Draco had been thinking that maybe they should switch the treatment. If they were having each other’s nightmares maybe they should have each other’s medicines too.

So Regulus got to drink the tea in case that worked and Fred got to drink the tea in case it didn’t.

“So how are you planning to know that it works?” Regulus scowled at them. He was in a really bad mood. The flame had singed the tip of his finger before vanishing.

“I will just be glad to not see you miserable,” Harry said, stuffing the napkin in his pocket as he went to help Regulus up. “Hey,” he added, while he effortlessly took a protesting Regulus in his arms. “How do the initials on the napkins work? Do each of you get one or— ?”

No, it wasn’t something as pedestrian as each member of the house getting a napkin embroidered and Harry was a real goon to ask. The clothes were embroidered with the initials of the ruling couple in the house which meant the father or the eldest child and his wife. Draco would say that Regulus was right.

“Oh? Yes, yes. The man and the lady.”

Draco was following behind, with Fred’s arm over his shoulder and evidently wasn’t paying much attention to Regulus’ rant. Harry was curious what could have Draco’s attention. Maybe he was distracted staring at Harry’s ass. A man could hope.

“I think I might— ” Harry began. “I don’t know. There have been so many people in this house. But Rebecca’s husband was Perseus or Pluto or something like that, right? I think I have a napkin of hers then.”

Draco was suddenly very interested. He pushed Fred onto Regulus’ sofa while Harry lay Regulus down a bit more gently and got him _The Prophet_ to see if the comic and a good crossword helped his mood.

“Where is it?” Draco said and Harry needed a couple of seconds to understand what he meant. He fished the napkin from his pocket and Draco snatched it quickly and left the room.

Everybody was being weird today.

“Hehehe,” Fred laughed with a deep and masculine tone but the same ring of a child that had just discovered fart jokes. Today’s cartoon strip was good. All Harry could see, upside down, was the dog and his wizard talking to a witch with a big hat.

Regulus wasn’t laughing though. Regulus was staring at the coffee table and Harry knew that expression. He sat next to him and stroked his hair, so soft and straight and glossy. Regulus’ chin began to tremble so Harry pushed his head gently towards Harry’s shoulder and kept stroking his hair. He didn’t say anything while Regulus cried on his chest, not even the usual hush and shush. He just let him cry because he had good reason to cry, because he was hurt and dying and it had been two days and he had barely recovered any strength and mobility on his left side and he had been very good about not panicking over it. Because they were doing all they could and it wasn’t enough.

Fred began to cry too but he tried to keep it quiet and pretend he wasn’t crying. Regulus tried to grab his hand and pull him in but Fred was sitting to his left so all Regulus could do was twitch at him.

It was ten or fifteen minutes before Harry moved. He passed them a handkerchief and a napkin (C. T. B) and got them a glass of water. He still didn’t say a word. To be honest he had no idea what could be said, what he would like to hear in a situation like this, and he knew that words weren’t his strength. It was better to just offer them solace in his company, silent understanding and the chance to purge their feelings.

He didn’t even look at the painting, not until Draco came back in the room and found everyone with red eyes (maybe Harry had gotten a bit emotional too). Harry blinked quickly and took a deep breath while staring at the calm figure in the ruins and then asked if Draco had found anything in the family tree.

“It was probably hers, yes,” he said hollowly. “Strange because they ought to have taken her initial out and put the new wife’s instead. Maybe they just left the one.”

Just one piece of fabric for the woman who had been lady of the house for three years. The woman who died young and lost her wand only for it to return almost eighty years later.

Draco went and made tea, probably because he wanted to get out of the living room and the strange air in it. It took him an inordinately large amount of time to get the tea ready and when Harry went to see if maybe he had had a tragic but hilarious accident in the kitchen (nobody trusted Draco’s ability in the kitchen) he found him once again standing in the corridor, head tilted back to look at the names on the tapestry.

The tea was cold by then and bitter so Harry had to take the tray and make it fresh and Draco stayed in the living room checking on Regulus and Fred. Regulus had had the beginnings of a headache the whole morning. It hadn’t developed into a full crisis, thankfully, but he was still in pain. Fred had a dry cough which was annoying but since he wasn’t spitting blood nobody thought it was bad.

ooOoo

This time, Fred had time to warn them. “I am spitting. I am spit in my mouth,” he said, which apparently meant that he was producing more spit than usual and that was a sign that he might have a seizure soon.

He got on the floor, took his slippers off for some reason and Harry had just enough time to shove a cushion under his head before Fred began to shake. Regulus followed the proceedings with lips pressed together and he got down on his knees to wait on Fred’s other side. The last couple of seizures had been bad, really bad, for both of them. Regulus was scared.

This one was short and clean. Fred shook a lot and had some spit fall from his mouth but there wasn’t any other fluids. He also recovered quickly enough meaning he was tired and drowsy for the rest of the afternoon and evening but he wasn’t blind or deaf and he seemed to be equally weak on both sides and most of his words made sense.

Harry only stared at the painting for ten seconds before lifting Fred to the sofa. Fenton jumped after him, stepped on Fred’s knee, and then made himself comfortable on his lap.

They allowed it. It seemed to do Fred good.

Harry rubbed a hand against his tired face. “This isn’t working,” he said in a low tone. “I don’t— ”

“We are doing all we can,” Draco said curtly, sitting by his side on the floor. He had interrupted whatever he had been doing and come to help.

“It’s not enough!” cried Harry. That was the problem. His best was far from enough and it had been over two weeks and there was no sign of improvement and there was a monster coming after him.

Regulus looked at him with a terrible expression of understanding. He wasn’t angry with Harry for his failure. He was forgiving and almost consoling and Harry had to look away, at Draco’s feet next to his own. Draco.

“Maybe, maybe we should go public after all.”

“What makes you think that is a good idea now when it wasn’t before?” Draco asked. He pulled at his sleeves nervously, uncovering his forearms. “Has anything happened recently that makes you think they won’t be declared dead in St Mungo and then transported to the Department of Mysteries under cover, never to be seen again?”

“I don’t want to be transported,” Fred said, whining. He buried his hands in Fenton’s fur.

“I would rather die,” Regulus said abruptly. His voice had never sounded as firm and adult as then. He looked at the three of them by turn with eyes that were nothing like blue jewels and were all the more real for it. “I don’t mind dying again. If the alternative is being locked up in a cell somewhere so men in robes can experiment on me, I will rather die, thank you very much.”

Five seconds later they heard Fred say, “Me too.”

Draco turned to Harry with his hands open, as if saying this was how things were. Then he leaned forward and grabbed a napkin (a modern one, with the initials of Sirius’ and Regulus’ parents) and tied a knot in it as if wanting to remember something later.

“Okay, yes,” Harry had to concede. He wasn’t going to do anything that Regulus and Fred didn’t want. “But the situation is not the same for Regulus as for Fred. You said it yourself, Draco. Fred’s name will protect him. His family is big and well situated.”

Fred looked less pleased than usual when they mentioned his family. He looked at Regulus and didn’t take his eyes off him. Harry had seen than expression before. On Ron but also on Fred and George and Ginny. Fred was thinking of dying Regulus’ black hair red and passing him off as a cousin.

“That could help,” Draco admitted. He had the knotted napkin firmly clutched in his left hand. “But if they argue that Fred is not human anymore, and you know they will, what then? It would be forty-eight hours at most before they reached that conclusion.”

“Yes, I know. But as I said, it is not the same when it happens to a Weasley. I am sorry,” he looked in apology at Regulus, but he waved his hand. Regulus was slowly crossing the short distance between the sofas to go sit with Fred. “With a Black, a former Death Eater, yes, they will pull that and even make up some charges to arrest him. But they will be more hesitant with a Weasley and we can argue against it.”

“Argue that he is indeed human?”

“No. That would be a mess and the precedents look very bad.” Harry had been thinking about it, in his sleepless nights. “Argue that it doesn’t matter. Use the werewolf rights campaign.”

Draco looked impressed, as well he should because it was a brilliant thought. By then Regulus and Fred and were sitting together arms linked and leaning against each other, with Fenton relocated to be on top of both of them. It seemed that Harry’s arguing was irrelevant because they would not be separated.

It was understandable. They were going through a very unique and frightening experience together. Even though Harry had been with them from the beginning, and even though he wasn’t a stranger to death either, he wasn’t sharing this with them.

“What is that?” asked Fred slowly. He was so slow and torpid.

“A werewolf campaign?” Regulus asked a bit more lively.

Harry explained and Draco explained and they sort of agreed. There had always been a pro-werewolf movement in the wizarding world. But while it used to be an oddity limited to a couple of kooky characters and Dumbledore, after Voldemort and the war the movement had gained steam and they had seen some great advancements. The Fair Employment Act fought against the discrimination of werewolves in the job market. It was still difficult to get a job as a werewolf, but less so than ten years ago and at the very least it wasn’t a fair case for sacking someone anymore.

There had also been a change of category and they weren’t classed as Beasts anymore. They hadn’t managed to be categorized as full humans either. That was something on which the Ministry wasn’t budging, despite the personal sympathy of Minister Kingsley to the cause. But they were getting the rights every other human wizard had, one by one.

They might be able to do the same with Fred. If they said he wasn’t human they could argue that he was still entitled to certain rights. Werewolves could openly go to Hogwarts these days.

Of course, the fact that Remus Lupin had died a hero had worked wonders for the movement. He even had his own chocolate frog card.

Regulus was looking at them as if they had told him that the Scottish had gone down to the border with pickaxes and successfully separated Scotland from the island. Fred was more familiar with the changes in the wizarding world and he still looked very surprised, so it was no wonder that Regulus needed some more time to process it.

“Remus Lupin?” he asked, to Harry’s enthusiastic and Draco’s less passionate nod. His face turned to a scowl and his voice, so soft and velvety and beautiful, was unbelievably ugly as he said the next words, full of disdain and scorn. “A hero? He was a spineless turncoat.”

“_What?_”

The only comfort was that Fred and Draco were as surprised as Harry. At their cries of no—because _no_, Lupin wasn’t any of that, Lupin was _nice_ and _brave_ and _good_—Regulus went on, full of venom. Lupin was weak-willed and selfish and if he died a hero, it must have been an accident, because there wasn’t a noble bone in that man’s body.

“Are we speaking of the same person?” Draco tried.

“Remus J. Lupin. Gryffindor. Don’t ask me why because the man was a coward. Same year as your father and my brother,” Regulus spit back. Harry could see that their denials were only making Regulus angrier and that he probably wouldn’t be so incensed about it otherwise. He could see it, but he was also outraged that anyone could say anything against Lupin.

“He was like, the only decent DADA teacher we ever had,” muttered Draco and then, at Fred and Harry’s befuddled expressions, he added, “What? I was an ass in his class, I know, it was almost my job. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t appreciate his lessons.”

“I thought Snape,” Harry didn’t know how to end the sentence. Snape had always been disgustingly biased for Slytherins, but Draco was rolling his eyes and Regulus was huffing dramatically.

“Snape just gave us points because someone had to, considering how every other teacher at school hated us. No, Harry, don’t say a word, you know it’s the truth and even then we managed to get the House Cup most of the time.”

“You didn’t like Snape?” asked Fred. Next to him Regulus was uncrossing his arms to ask if this Snape was Severus Snape and Fenton licked his fingers.

“He wasn’t much of a teacher, was he?” Draco shrugged. “He knew a lot about potions, I will give you that. The sixth and seventh years said that a class with him guaranteed Exceeds Expectations at the NEWTs. But in the lower levels he just put instructions on the blackboard and had us follow them with no further explanation.”

Oh, Harry was feeling so vindicated. So someone else agreed that the classes had been insufficient. If he wasn’t so upset about Lupin he would be really enjoying the moment.

Lupin had worked for the Order. Risked his life multiple times. Been there when they had to get Harry out of Privet Drive. Fought when Death Eaters crashed Bill’s wedding and helped many people escape arrest during the next year. Both Fred and Harry told Regulus that. Lupin had done what many others hadn’t.

Regulus had gone back to crossing his arms, although he was still very close to Fred. Fenton sniffed at him in case he was hiding something in his hands.

“That may be,” he said, and his voice was like the lash of a whip. “But only because he had no other option. The man was a coward. He did whatever was best for himself in every situation. I am surprised he didn’t flee at the first opportunity.”

Harry swallowed and said nothing. He didn’t have to, Fred was speaking for him. He could focus on pushing down the memory of Lupin showing up to that same house offering to help.

Abandoning his son and wife.

“He fought for the Order! With Dumbledore!” Fred cried, although his voice wavered. He hadn’t recovered completely.

“Oh, I am sure he was capable of fighting when it suited him. Everyone does.”

Draco made a soft sound of agreement. Fenton chose that moment to jump down, apparently displeased with all the movement in his bed. He went to sit at Draco’s feet.

“Look,” Regulus said, taking a deep breath and trying to calm himself and everyone. “You didn’t know him like I did, all right?”

“I knew him pretty well, though,” Harry bit back because the argument was patronising. “I knew him when he came to defend Hogwarts. I knew him when he died there.”

For a second Harry thought he had won. For a second Regulus was silent. Then he opened his mouth and delivered the first blow.

“If he was so brave and good, why wasn’t he the one to keep the secret of the _fidelius_?”

“Sirius…”

“Was your father’s best friend. But they decided to switch at the last minute. Good idea, by the way, there were plans to kidnap and torture Sirius for the information. I was very worried about that. But they didn’t put your dear Lupin in his place, did they?”

That wasn’t fair. Harry didn’t know what his parents had been thinking. He knew very little about his parents, in fact. “That isn’t fair,” he said softly. It was suddenly very quiet, as if this were something just between Regulus and him. Draco was stroking Fenton and looking at his fur and Fred was looking awkwardly between them.

“Maybe it was some inherent racism on your parents’ part?” Regulus asked cruelly.

“Pettigrew was the obvious best choice. He was unassuming and discreet and they thought he was loyal.”

Regulus nodded, but he wasn’t leaving it at that. He wasn’t sparing Harry. He would talk, hard and cruel, just as he had said that he appreciated when Harry didn’t hide the truth from them.

“So was I,” Regulus said, his voice suddenly turned soft and tender. “Unassuming and discreet and apparently loyal. Something that couldn’t be said of your friend Lupin. They were working him, promising him what he knew Dumbledore would never be able to give him. He was months, maybe weeks, from caving in and switching sides when Pettigrew came and snatched the prize from him.”

Harry was shaking his head no despite himself. He couldn’t hear this. It wasn’t true. Draco had put Fenton on his lap and was hugging him. Fred was looking at Regulus with wet eyes.

“No,” Harry heard himself say. He wished he had said nothing. It was almost a weakness, to keep denying it but it also felt like a betrayal if he accepted it. Lupin had had a moment of terror and weakness and he had done the right thing in the end, when Harry pointed out he had a duty to his son. It wasn’t fair to judge him for one single moment of doubt. Ron also had one and Harry still considered him his best mate. Hell, Draco sitting by his side had willingly taken the mark and nowadays Harry was constantly thinking of kissing him.

“I am sorry.” Regulus said, and he looked sorry. “I know it isn’t nice to hear. He was selfish and self-serving. His actions might had been heroic, but he wasn’t a hero.” There was a pause and then he looked at Harry and his voice was unbearably soft and tender then. Harry realized that Regulus wasn’t speaking to be contrary, he didn’t want to hurt Harry or to be right.

He wanted to give Harry the truth because he knew Harry had had enough lies.

“He was your teacher, you said.” The three of them nodded. “When was this? The year of the tournament?”

Harry said no with his head. “That year was Moody. Only it turned out to be Bartemius Crouch Jr. Lupin was the year before. When Sirius escaped.”

He thought Regulus might have known that already. Harry wasn’t sure if he had mentioned it, that time he vented about all the things they kept from him. But if not him, it might have been Luna. She and Regulus talked a lot in soft whispers when she spent the night there and Regulus couldn’t sleep.

“When everybody thought my brother wanted to kill you,” said Regulus. “You said there were dementors in the school.”

“Just the outside of the grounds,” Draco said. It was the first time he had spoken in a long while.

“They must have been very scared for your sake.”

Harry nodded and then said, “Yes.” He didn’t know where this was going and he thought he wasn’t going to like it, but he had accepted it. He would take whatever Regulus threw at him and deal with it later, when he couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t as if Harry didn’t have previous experience with disappointment.

“And did dear good Lupin mention at any point that my brother, the alleged traitor, the killer of, how many muggles it was?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve muggles, thank you Fred. Did Lupin say at any point that the mass murderer that was purportedly coming after you was an animagus?”

All the teacups in the room broke at the same time and Fenton jumped out of Draco’s lap and began to bark. Harry got up quickly to repair the cups and clean up the spilled tea. He thought he was the one who had broken them, but he couldn’t be sure. Everybody looked shaken.

“I thought so,” Regulus said tiredly even though no one had said that he was right. “That would be him admitting wrongdoing on his part. He said nothing and hoped for the best and risked your life rather than confessing the truth.”

Harry didn’t want to be part of the conversation any more. Since he was up, he walked to the left side of the room and stood before the painting, his painting. The solitude of the figure didn’t look so desolate anymore. It was comforting, not having anyone around to lie to you, not another paternal figure that disappointed you.

Harry had to say something and let the room know he was fine and he wasn’t going to have a breakdown. It was hardly the first case he found in which a hero wasn’t all that heroic. “If you focus on intentions rather than actions there is always going to be some disappointment,” he said, the words sounding empty to his ears. “Nobody is perfect.”

“Excuse you, Potter,” Draco said in a snotty tone, rising from his seat. Harry smiled as Draco opened his arms as if saying, “What I am, then? Aren’t I here, the most perfect and shiny creature that ever walked on Earth? Don’t I have stars for eyes and a mouth that haunts your dreams?”

“Fenton is right here!” Draco said instead, but with just the tone Harry expected. Everybody laughed which Fenton took to mean that surely they were about to hand out dog treats, which they did, because throwing little bone-shaped biscuits for Fenton to catch in the air was like a _patronus_. It had the same effect.

“How did you know Sirius was an animagus?” Harry asked a while later, when he felt better.

“How didn’t everyone? My brother was a subtle as a bag of nails falling down the stairs.”

“Boy, George and I always wanted to be animaguses. We were very curious to see if we would turn in the same animal. We have the same patronus.”

Those were better thoughts: Watching Fenton play, thinking what outrageous animal the twins would turn into, Regulus telling them how smug and unsubtle Sirius had been, how infuriating it was that their parents didn’t pick up on any of the hints. It was better.

“Even if the werewolf rights worked,” Draco said a while later, taking the toy from Fenton’s mouth and throwing it again across the foyer and to the dining room. “They would still come after Regulus, you know that.”

“I do,” Harry said. He had thought a lot about that too. “If it comes to it, I was thinking of marrying him,” he said in all seriousness. It was a very good plan. Half the time his thoughts veered towards marrying _Draco_ and having a fictional wedding night, but otherwise it was a good and sound idea to ensure Regulus Black was protected from the Ministry.

Regulus blinked and smiled and said something, something warm and maybe something funny, too, about wanting Harry to ask properly. Fred also smiled and made a joke or two about Regulus being able to do much better and marrying one of Fred’s brothers. Percy, perhaps, or Charlie, Charlie would treat him right.

But it was Draco, dear Merlin, Draco began to laugh and laugh and got tears in his eyes and honestly Harry didn’t know why he found it so hilarious, he would do whatever it took to protect his friends.

ooOoo

“What’s up with him?” asked Regulus with a vague gesture of his chin that seemed to indicate Draco. It was a gesture very much like Sirius would make, which only showed how different the two brothers were. Even after Azkaban, even when living in a cave or confined to the darkness of Grimmauld Place, there had been something uncanny in how beautiful Sirius was. Regulus, however, just looked sick and normal and human. Except for his eyes, which were plain and brown and had a light in them that almost made you think that Regulus might be a god or a trickster spirit in disguise.

But this wasn’t about Regulus, and the similarities and differences between the Black brothers. It was about Draco and his restlessness. He had been distracted all day. So much so that Harry had had to give up reading in the library and bring his current research to the living room because Draco kept getting lost and someone had to stay near Regulus and Fred. Fenton had followed Draco faithfully for a while but even he had grown bored and decided to go pester Fred instead. Fenton had also managed to steal the rest of Draco’s sandwich for himself, which he had laid down for a minute on one of the stairsteps and then forgotten about it while he went on another of his walks through the house.

“It looks like he was hit with a _vagus_ or something,” added Regulus.

“A what?” Harry asked, jolted out of his thoughts. He had been thinking about Draco, about impossible ways in which Harry might tire him out and take the restlessness from him, and now Regulus went and said those strange things.

“A _vagus_,” Regulus repeated, sounding surprised himself. “You know, a charm that makes people confused and they go wandering and rambling around. Walking and talking in circles.”

“A _confundus_,” said Harry, because that was pretty much what Regulus had described and how Draco was behaving. Except Draco seemed to have developed a fixation with the tapestry on the stairs as he kept going back there before wandering somewhere else muttering.

“Oh, is that what kids are using these days?” The way Regulus asked the question, he looked quite pretty just then. Something in his eyes. “We used _vagus_.”

“I am very interested, please tell me more,” Fred said at once, quickly, between coughs. Fred might be dying but he still wanted to know more prank-related things for when he was not-dying. Things like the ankle-bite hex. How did that work? Also, could Harry go stand over there and not move?

Fred would make a terrible ghost.

Nevertheless, Harry stood and let himself be hexed only for the gleeful cackle that escaped Fred when he finally got the spell right. He also let Fred put some freckles on his face, so he could demonstrate to Regulus how they could pass him off as a cousin.

ooOoo

“What was this for?” Draco asked a while later, after dinner. He was holding the napkin with a knot.

“You are asking me? I don’t know, Draco.”

“I… I tied this to remember something. While you were speaking,” Draco said slowly, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I can’t remember what it was.”

“Oh, I hate when that happens,” Fred said.

“All day. I keep having this idea and then… it goes,” Draco said, biting his lip. It was annoying, certainly, but it was more than that. He looked frustrated and anxious, his face paler than usual and his hair in a ponytail far messier than Harry had ever seen. It looked almost like Harry’s own hair after all the times Draco had undone and redone his hair. “I don’t even know if it is a good idea because it keeps escaping me!”

“We were talking about going to St Mungo’s,” Harry said. It wasn’t difficult to remember what Draco was doing at any given time. “You said it was a terrible idea.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” Fred said, pouting. “I want to stay here and play with Fenton. I don’t want my family to see me like this and I don’t want to leave Regulus behind.”

“Listen,” Regulus began to say. It seemed that all strength had abandoned him at dinner time. He was now lying on his side on the sofa, keeping very still although he had his eyes open.

“No,” Fred pouted, but he sounded very decisive. While the twins were amicable and friendly they were also stubborn, Fred even more so than George.

“No, listen,” Regulus insisted, making a brave effort to move his hand, the right one, the left was as good as dead. “I don’t want you to go either, if it means any chance of being locked in the Department of Mysteries forever.” He grabbed Fred’s hand at last, but only because Fred had moved closer. “But Potter here is being a little Slytherin. He knows that if you go out first and they have success with you, healing you, and also not having you kidnapped, it will be easier with me later. He might not have to marry me after all.”

Fred looked at Regulus anxiously. He might go, then, if it meant helping his friend. The idea and the decision was right there in Fred’s eyes. Only he began to cough right then and when he took his hand from his mouth there was blood in it. Fred was willing to do many things, but letting his twin brother and his mother watch his agony wasn’t one of them.

“Merlin. I think I’m beginning to bleed all over,” he said dejectedly, and attempted to get up. Not that Harry or anyone cared if the sofa got stained with blood again.

“I want to go,” said Draco. He was clutching the napkin hard.

“To St Mungo’s?” Harry asked over his shoulder as he grabbed Fred by the arms. There was a dark stain forming between the legs of his pyjamas and a small trickle of blood coming from his nose.

Draco had been acting weird all day, so it was naïve of Harry to expect him to change now. “Hogwarts,” he said, which was _not_ in the first five guesses Harry would have made. “I want to go Hogwarts. Surely you can get me to Hogwarts, Ex-Auror Potter.”

Harry probably could get Draco Malfoy in Hogwarts if he told McGonagall it was important. He wouldn’t be able to avoid questions, though, and whoever or whatever was stalking the house would know they had gone to Hogwarts.

“Why do you want to go to Hogwarts?” asked Harry while he stuffed Fred’s nose with a bit of paper. There were a couple of charms to stop bleeding, but they hadn’t worked before and they weren’t working now. They could only wait.

“I need to think.”

“What’s wrong with the library?” Harry did a lot of thinking in the library. It had books, some of them arranged to his tastes, and a framed comic. If he moved his painting there the place would be perfect and he would never leave.

Draco lifted the napkin with a knot as if that were some sort of explanation by itself. “I can’t think here,” he said. “I have been thinking all day and I keep losing that thought. That is not normal. I have to go to Hogwarts. Take me to the chamber with the basilisk. You did kill the basilisk, didn’t you?”

Fred was sitting down on the sofa, wrapped in towels. Harry turned to look at Draco with little energy to understand what he meant. “The basilisk is dead,” he said. “I can get you to Hogwarts. I suppose I could get you in the chamber, but I am not so sure because it opened with parselmouth instructions and I lost that ability together with Voldemort’s last horcrux.”

When he wanted, Harry could be very efficient and succinct with his words. He really didn’t know why he was such a disaster at other times.

Draco took a while to answer. He was back to having a lost gaze, as if he were reading something from an invisible book.

“A place that is warded,” he said slowly, picking every word. “Heavily warded. With an anti-apparition shield.”

“All right,” Harry nodded. He could think of more than one place like that. “What else? Keep talking.”

“A place under many charms,” said Draco. He was clutching the napkin very hard. “Somewhere that magic can’t reach.”

“All right,” Harry repeated, calmly. “Do you think there is magic here affecting you?”

Draco looked at him briefly before averting his eyes and nodding. Harry wasn’t sure that there could be a charm or a curse that prevented you from having a thought, but maybe Draco had been hit with something after all. Until this morning he hadn’t know there was a variant of the _confundus_. Maybe he had been surreptitiously charmed while he was walking Fenton.

If that were the case, time and _finite incantatem_ should do the trick, rather than travelling to somewhere remote and barred to magic. Unless _that_ were the goal of the spell, luring Harry out and away. Maybe what Draco was fighting was an _imperius_ and he had just lost.

“Draco, I need you to lay down for a second.”

ooOoo

It probably wasn’t an _imperius_. Unless the spell had been cast with incredible force and held for a long time, it tended to vanish after losing consciousness and waking up. Harry had stunned Draco and he was still set on going.

“I am not sure about Hogwarts,” Harry said. “I won’t be able to keep it secret, even if I ask McGonagall to be discreet. There are far too many people.”

“Don’t want to be seen in my company?” Draco asked, still on the floor, leaning on his elbows.

“I don’t want whoever is lurking around the house to know where we are going,” Harry answered, pushing his hair back. “Really, you just want to go somewhere warded.”

“Somewhere with a big curse.” Draco pleaded. He was going mad from wanting, going mad thinking. “Sometimes curses can give protection, too.”

Harry had heard of it, yes. Everything came with a cost, and sometimes the cost was a curse. It wasn’t often that it was presented the other way around: a curse with benefits.

Draco still had that lost expression plus a deep frown and a general ill feeling. He got up, avoiding everyone’s eyes, and called Fenton to his side.

“I am going to take him for a walk,” he said. “I might be a while.”

“Take as long as you need,” Harry said, understanding. “Do you have your wand?”

Draco had his wand and the napkin with a knot.

Harry returned to the living room and checked on Fred. He was still bleeding, although at a slow rate. Regulus watched them in silence, he was back to being sullen and depressed.

“What do you think is up with Draco?” Fred asked. There was blood in his mouth, on his tongue and over his teeth.

Harry sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know if there is something wrong. I think he is close to remembering something.”

“If Kreacher were here,” Regulus said as he shifted position. He was uncomfortable any way he lay. “That cave had many protections, if he needs to be safe to think.”

Harry wasn’t sure that Draco needed a feeling of safety to think, more like a big curse to interfere with some other kind of magic. He didn’t know much about it but Harry was willing to believe it. Certain charms were impossible to cast in dementor-inhabited places even when the wizard could cast a fully corporeal patronus. There was also a girl in the Auror department with seer abilities. Very low level, nothing that could let her make a career of it, but good in combat. She said she got better and clearer visions when they were in marshes and wet areas with grindylow settlements, although those visions tended to take a dark nature.

“I have been there,” Harry said. “From the outside. It’s not difficult to get in, just a sacrifice of blood.” He scoffed at the last words. Really, blood was one of the easiest things to give. Harry couldn’t understand how Voldemort came up with something as terrible as the Potion of Despair that forced you to relieve your worst memories and thoughts, and before that he asked for a payment in blood. Harry had ended up bleeding from Quidditch trainings just because someone was a bit slow with the bat. Blood was nothing.

“I have blood,” Fred said and sniffed. He was actually slowly stopping his bleeding. “You can take some.”

“Thank you, Fred. I think only fresh blood works, but a very small amount is enough.” He patted Fred on the hand. They had had dinner already, but Harry was thinking that he might prepare them both some hot soup of water and spicy bread. He didn’t like how pale Fred was. “If Draco hasn’t cleared his head, tomorrow evening I will take him there.”

But Draco wasn’t returning. Nothing to worry about yet, it had only been fifteen minutes and he had said he was going for a long walk to clear his head. Still, Harry had an anxious knot in his stomach that was relatively easy to ignore because there was always some anxiety there. There was also a grip on his heart and lungs that was new, a shortness of breath when Draco wasn’t around.

This couldn’t have come at a worst time. He couldn’t have found Draco and developed a crush when there was no chance of the Ministry getting involved and nothing was coming after Harry. Harry was going crazy and so was Draco but maybe Draco would feel a better after a good walk around the neighbourhood. Harry, on the other hand, needed a good long wank and to get out the house and breathe and it was unlikely that he would get that. Well, he might get to go out if Draco insisted he needed to think elsewhere, but going to the sea cave was hardly what Harry needed to relax and get over his ill-timed crush. With his luck, he would just get more fucked-up fantasies and no relief.

ooOoo

Draco returned almost an hour later. Harry saw him before he reached the door because by pure chance he had been sitting near the window looking at the street waiting for a silver white figure to appear. Draco was coming at a trot, looking over his shoulder and with his wand in his hand. Fenton was pulling on his leash to go on the other direction, and Draco was almost dragging him back to the house. The moment he reached the door he began to pound on it.

“It’s me!” he said quickly as Harry opened the door. He shoved Fenton inside first before coming in, wand and napkin in his hand. “See? Napkin with knot. Draco Malfoy, I have a tattoo, used to be a jerk to you. Made that explosion on the corridor in the fourth year, let the Gryffindors get the blame. Now let me in and close the door.”

The good news were that Draco had finally had a thought. It was written on soft ink on his right arm, bobbly and uneven letters since he had written them with his left hand. It said _h u s b a n d_.

That was all he had managed to write down, but he had more, he relayed it to Harry in a panting breath, as if afraid that it would escape him again. Rebecca was a young widow. Rebecca’s first husband had passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. Draco didn’t know what it was but there had been something about that death, he remembered now, a passing comment when talking about something else, maybe after Cousin Pandora’s death. Something about her widowhood, about how her husband had died. Not so gruesome, perhaps, as unexpected. Enough that although Rebecca had remarried pretty soon, she had never stopped thinking about it.

“All right,” Harry said calmly. Draco had grabbed him by the arms and Harry didn’t want to move. He was going to stay there and let Draco feel his biceps while he told Harry that both Rebecca’s first husband and their own Rebecca had died young. Draco couldn’t remember any details, they were century-old rumours, but he thought that Husband One, whatever his name, had gotten involved in something dirty and dangerous and that when his loyal wife tried to learn more, she was killed too.

“Probably goblin-related,” Draco said, taking a step back and dropping his arms. “But that’s what they always say when something iffy happens, that it was the goblins. If they were pressed for money, then it might be.”

Harry was familiar with the sentiment that goblins were behind many disappearances. However, he had been involved in over a hundred Auror cases, he didn’t know the exact number but over a hundred. He had only seen actual guilty goblins a total of three (3) occasions. Relatives wanting to accelerate an inheritance or dealing with a grudge were far more common. That, and people wanting to get rich quick and doing something very stupid even when it didn’t involve murder in the family.

The bad news, that Draco only reported after he had said the thing about the husband aloud because he was very worried that he would forget it, was that he had been… attacked wasn’t the word. Followed. Chased. He had had the feeling that something was observing him (“thank you so much for your stalking Potter. I can tell when someone invisible is looking at me”) when Fenton got a sniff or something and began to bark furiously and even tried to go bite whatever it was.

And then… Draco couldn’t describe it, exactly. Then whatever it was stalking them had fought back. Draco had felt weak at the knees and Fenton had whimpered. He had doubled over in pain with a sudden and violent headache and he had thrown up on the street.

(Regulus had headaches like that. What did it mean?)

Draco couldn’t hear anything other than a high-pitched ringing between his ears. He had began to sweat. He wanted to lie down on the floor and curl up. Instead he had made himself run. A combination of fear about what would happen to Fenton and having spent a year with Voldemort in his house had gave him the strength to get away. It took more than pain and terror to bring Draco down.

Harry sat him in the armchair and saw that there were a few specks of blood on his left ear.

“We thought of a place to take you to think,” Regulus said. He had gotten a bit of a fever in the last hour. Fred said nothing, he had fallen asleep a while ago.

ooOoo

Draco said that if someone managed to enter the house Harry should get ample warning given how the foyer was _still_ full of hazardous piles, but Harry still moved the divan closer to the door. Draco was also transfiguring an old chaise lounge so he could sleep in the living room because, although he didn’t offer any explanation, it was obvious that he was scared.

Regulus and Fred didn’t care. Fred remained deeply asleep, so deeply that he barely moved his chest as he breathed and he had gotten very cold. Harry had put a second blanket on top of him and thrown another log in the fire. Regulus, on the other hand, was burning with fever. He couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t stay awake and the fever formed nightmares before his eyes.

Fenton was very happy to see everyone in the same room, though.

ooOoo

There was no one standing on the street outside, but if there had been, he or she would have arrived at a slow pace. The moment to attack the Slytherin tart had passed. Nobody would have had a chance to try again before he reached the house.

Well, many others might have tried, but the person, if it was a person, standing before the house was cautious. A professional survivor. A second attack might have risked attracting the attention of the abomination in the house and they knew already that Potter was a strong fighter. Not undefeatable, no, but one of those fights that had to be approached carefully and with an advantage.

There was no one standing there but if there were, they would be _sure_ that they could take on Harry. They could do what no one else was able to and kill the boy, the abominable boy. In fact, they were starting to relish the idea. It wasn’t the main goal but it would be a nice, pretty addendum. Nobody liked a fellow survivor, someone who made a mockery of death.

It wouldn’t be easy, though, they knew as much. And they couldn’t forget that Potter was the reward, not the objective. The real prize was the monsters hiding inside the house. The living dead. The dead alive. The young men locked on a threshold, not living and not dying. Aberrations, aberrations! Death wanted them back. Death had a claim on them. They would make a more than suitable sacrifice. They belonged to someone who wasn’t standing there, staring at the house. There was no one there.

When they next moved, whoever it was that wasn’t there, when they next moved and tried again they wanted to be sure of their success. The Slytherin prettyboy and the girl were nothing more than an annoyance, but even an annoyance might be dangerous in a close fight. More so when there was also an abomination like Potter around.

It wasn’t going to be a close fight, but one could never be too sure. It was better to treat it like one, to want to have every advantage, to be certain of success.

ooOoo

Good things about Sundays:

_Ruff!_ was bigger. Today it was about an old friend from school who wanted to catch up with Ruff’s owner, much to his chagrin. Just like all those guys Harry couldn’t remember who greeted him as if they had spent all their time at Hogwarts together. Or like Justin Finch-Fletchley who nowadays treated Harry as if they were intimate. Harry dealt with it in the pettiest way possible, by calling him Fletcher both as a name and last name. Fletcher Fletcher.

That was the good thing that Sunday. That, and Fenton sneezed in a funny way and played with a ball. Everything else was horrible.

Fred didn’t wake up. Harry didn’t know if he should wake him or not because sleep should do him good but he had been sleeping for a long while now. Then Fred turned around, almost fell to the floor (great reflexes there, Harry) and had a seizure that lasted five minutes. He pissed himself and Harry also found blood between his legs.

Almost right away, as if he were jealous or as if an evil spirit were playing with them, Regulus got up from his sofa, took two steps and fell to his knees. He left a trail of blood behind him. He got on his hands and knees although his left arm could barely support him. Harry had to grab him by the chest to keep him upright as Regulus began to cough and hack and vomit blood, dark and almost black. It was coming from his mouth and nose and ears and he could barely breathe.

It was so bad that Harry thought again about taking them to St Mungo’s. If the Ministry tried to steal them, Harry could handcuff himself to both of them and they would have to drag him to the Department of Mysteries, too, or wherever they wanted to take them. They would be leaving a trail of blood in any case so they couldn’t disappear and maybe someone would help.

“Tell me your idea again?” he asked Draco, while they struggled to get the room under control. Fenton was nervous and jumpy from all the blood and he kept trying to get their attention, getting in the middle, and also licking Fred’s face.

Fred might be waking up after all. Good.

“Rebecca,” Draco began tentatively while he cleaned the blood on the floor so they wouldn’t slip on it. “Was killed by someone, I think? And…”

“No, about the place,” Harry said, one hand holding Regulus’ hair, the other holding his chest as it shook with the cough.

“I can’t think straight. Something is distracting me. Maybe myself, I don’t know. But I want to go somewhere isolated and cursed and that should allow me to think clearly.” He took a small pause and added, “even if the place is dark. A curse won’t let another act.”

Luna had mentioned something about the thestrals being interested in her clothes. They had sniffed Harry thoroughly, too. Maybe there _was_ some sort of influence in the house that was pulling them down and twisting their thoughts, much like when they had to carry the horcrux. It had been impossible to think about destroying it when they were wearing the locket.

“I will write to Luna to please come earlier,” he said. Draco was pushing Fenton away and washing Fred’s face. “We will go this evening to the place where Voldemort hid one of the horcruxes.”

Draco looked at him with surprise as if saying, “Really? After all this?” but it was precisely that. He would hate to leave Luna with this mess, but if they got Regulus and Fred stabilised Harry was taking himself and Draco out and away and they were going to _think_.

He wouldn’t even let himself fantasise about kissing in a moment of euphoria at a revelation. He was going to fix this.

He was going to fix this.

ooOoo

Regulus stopped bleeding forty minutes later. He passed out, exhausted, and Harry had to take him in his arms and put him back on the sofa. Then he wrote a quick note and gave it to Aeneas, who flapped his wings in excitement. Such a small, silly creature and how happy he was to still be of use. He did leave before Harry could tie the message to his leg, but he was back in less than a minute so no harm done.

Once Aeneas had left with the message and instructions to go see Luna, Harry went to see Fred. Draco was sitting by his side on the floor and Fenton was licking his hand as if it were his only job.

Fred’s eyes went to Harry as he came closer, so he must be able to see him. He looked very out of it, though; faded. He was awake but he was far from being alert.

Draco turned slightly and moved his head. His hair fell over his shoulder, a sleek tail of silver blond. It was the most beautiful thing in the room.

He barely moved his lips as he spoke in a murmur. “I think he can’t hear. I don’t want to scare him.”

Fred could not hear them but he wasn’t scared. Truth was that he was too tired to be scared. He could feel Fenton’s soft head under his hand, begging for a caress, and he could see Regulus in front of him and it was enough. He asked about Regulus with a clumsy tongue that had trouble making the words and he smiled sadly when he couldn’t hear the answer. Harry mimed that Regulus was asleep and calm and Fred nodded, satisfied.

“I don’t know how you aren’t more scared,” Draco said. The room was clean and deceptively calm. There was nothing else to do besides make tea.

Harry shrugged. “I try not to think too much about it,” he said, and absentmindedly glanced at the painting even though he barely needed it at the moment. Draco followed his eyes and said nothing. He looked at the painting sideways, as if he couldn’t stand facing it, his left shoulder slightly raised in self-protection. He kept staring at it, though, when Harry went and prepared tea.

ooOoo

Luna came a bit before seven carrying two or three bags and a basket. Her hair was messy and a bit dirty and so were the trousers she was wearing. It was strange, seeing her with trousers. The white sweater with black stars was more like it.

“Hello Harry,” she said as she came inside after giving the password (Harry preferred red tea over black; he didn’t know how she knew that) and getting Fenton’s approval. She patted Fenton on the head and pushed him away from the basket that he wanted to sniff. There was something moving under the checkered cloth that covered it.

“I had to bring the snake,” said Luna. “I think the apparition upset it, poor thing, but I have to check on its feathers. Here.” She passed Harry a package that he soon realized was a fast-asleep Aeneas snuggled in a towel.

She really couldn’t come and she had anyway. The magma snake had something wrong with it, probably being in the wet English weather, and needed treatment for its feathers. Luna was making some sort of cream with which to coat the inside of the winter spiders’ nest. (aaah.) The thestrals were fine but one of them had damaged his hoof. Two of the lamps in her cottage had broken, and she still hadn’t had time to repair them.

She had all that to do, but she had come because Harry had called.

“I am so sorry,” Harry said. It was the third time he said it since she had come inside.

“Hello Luna, I have lost most of my hearing so you will have to speak up. Also I have a most distressing tingling in my feet and my neck hurts,” greeted Fred. That was a pretty good explanation except for his hearing because no amount of speaking up helped him hear. He was just good at making guesses.

At least he wasn’t as scared and distressed as when he went blind. Harry thought it was because Fred enjoyed the pantomiming. There was no other reason why he had been so interested in knowing everyone’s favourite ice cream flavour at dinner time.

Draco’s answer had been _green_, which surprised Harry. Not because green wasn’t a flavour but because he was quite certain that it wasn’t even Draco’s favourite colour. Fred had pressed the point, thankfully, and they had learned that _green_ meant _pistachio_ which was more in line with Draco’s personality.

“Miss Lovegood,” Regulus greeted with a hoarse voice. He was bleeding again. Harry handed him a handkerchief without a word and Regulus wiped his mouth discreetly.

“I want to say we won’t be long,” Harry said while Luna got her things settled. “But I don’t know how long it will be. Definitely before bedtime.”

“It’s okay, Harry,” she said and for a second Harry was surprised by the woman standing before him. He tended to still think of Luna as… Luna. A young girl with dreamy eyes who had learned to live with her suffering. Someone to be loved and protected because she was gentle and fragile even when she had unbelievable strength.

But this, the Luna telling Harry that it was okay, this was a grown woman. The fact that she wasn’t wearing an ill-fitting skirt accentuated that. She wasn’t a young girl but an adult witch.

It wasn’t exaggeration on Harry’s part. Regulus and Fred had noticed the change of wardrobe too. Regulus had blushed.

“Be careful, both of you,” Luna said with her bird-like voice. She was resting a hand on her hip and Harry felt better about going and leaving her in charge. She looked a bit like Hermione in that moment and Hermione, as everybody knew, had been born already an adult.

“We won’t be long.”

“Just go!”

“Goodbye, Luna,” said Draco as he went to the door. Until then he had been crouched before Fenton, telling him he had to be good. “Don’t let Fenton fool you. He already had dinner and a walk.”

ooOoo

Someone watched as Harry and Draco exited the house. Someone had stayed there since the previous night. Someone had to come to a quick decision: following them or turning to the house. The house had a big prize inside, but capturing and killing Harry would also be a delicious prize. The young man was bound to have a particular taste, something sparky and powerful.

Someone watched, full of hate, as Harry took Draco’s arm and apparated away.

ooOoo

Last time, Dumbledore had apparated with Harry atop a rock in the middle of the ocean that overlooked the cliffs and the cave in them. Harry remembered how dangerous the sea had seemed, how big and devouring, especially for a boy like him who had never properly learned to swim.

Well, he had learned, he had just never been _taught_ and seeing that dark sea moving before him Harry had not felt sure of what he had managed to pick up by himself.

This time he apparated with Draco right onto the small ledge before the door. The sea was big and threatening and there was also a strong and chilly wind. The last few days in Grimmauld Place there had been intermittent soft rain. Now it wasn’t raining, thank Merlin, but the wind was throwing foam and cold saltwater on them. The ledge was slippery and very small and they had to cling to each other and the rock wall in front of them.

Draco was looking at everything with his mouth slightly parted. He looked up at the unclimbable wall and back to the sea that was practically black and moving as if it were alive. A few strands of his hair had come loose and were crossing his face. Harry’s hand itched to take them and push them back gently, maybe caress Draco’s cheek with the back of his fingers as he put the hair behind his ear.

A particularly large wave crashed below them, splashing them with water and jolting them into action. In Draco’s case, grabbing the wall harder and twisting his back so he could get a better view of the black sea. Harry supposed it was an impressive view, if a scary one.

“All right. Hold on a second,” Harry said as he opened his jacket and shirt to expose a little of his chest. Bleeding his hand would be easier and quicker but hands were sensitive, full of nerves and needed in combat. Harry much preferred making a small nick on his chest and taking the blood from there.

Draco wasn’t sure where to look, that was obvious. His eyes were looking at Harry’s bare neck one second and at the waves far away the next before coming to rest to the big crashing waves surrounding them.

It was less than a minute, though. Less than a minute and the door opened for them and they could get inside, away from the cruel wind and the crashing waves and the sea that acted like a hungry monster. Inside wasn’t much better, though. Harry found that he had forgotten many details of the cave. He remembered the inferi and the potion, which seemed the important elements. He had forgotten the pale green light and the special density of the darkness, unlike that of any other cave. Perhaps it had always been like this or maybe it was Voldemort’s touch, but the place certainly had an uncanny quality to it. It was easy to believe that magic would act differently here or maybe not at all. Too dark and deep for magic to reach it.

“There is an invisible boat to the island,” Harry said, taking a couple of steps inside and putting himself between Draco and the water without a thought. “But I don’t recommend you take it, it can only carry one adult wizard at a time. I would rather just stay here on the shore.”

Draco was still looking at his surroundings in open-mouthed fascination. Harry could confirm, once again, that it wasn’t a particularly beautiful mouth. It was clean, of course, and the teeth were white and even, but there wasn’t anything of what made a mouth beautiful and sensual. The lips were thin rather than full, straight more than curved. It wasn’t like the sinful innocence in Luna’s rosebud lips, or the impish fullness of Ginny’s or the delicious plumpness of Dean’s.

It was a sharp and smart mouth and Harry very much wanted to kiss it for all it looked like it might bite back.

“How big is this place?” Draco asked without looking at him. Harry answered by casting _lumos_ and then throwing the light away from him. He got it to bounce on the wall three times before it faded. Draco looked more impressed with the size and appearance of the cave than with the unusual magic trick Harry had just made. Then he looked around himself, found a spot that suited him, and sat down.

Harry went and sat to his right. Draco was closer to the door now and although they were about the same distance from the lakeshore, Harry was just a tad bit closer. The light had made the inferi move in the water, the surface of the lake full of ripples.

“What a dreary place,” Draco said softly. They weren’t talking in whispers but the cave didn’t allow a normal tone. “It’s so quiet and calm and yet it is just like a nightmare.”

That it was. Harry now felt a bit bad that he hadn’t returned. Of course there was nothing for him there and he didn’t have to, but he wished he had come and set the cave on fire and drained the lake.

Maybe he would, after all this passed. Maybe he would come with Regulus and destroy the place. That was a thought.

Harry had barely moved and his shoes were already full of sand. He didn’t like sand. He put a bit in his hand and looked at it while he let it fall slowly, thinking how he could use sand in a duel to annoy an enemy. Maybe just a blast of sand, coarse and gritty. That should throw anyone off balance.

“Any thoughts coming your way?” he asked. He didn’t know why he asked. They had barely sat down. But it was dark and quiet and Draco was right there next to him and Harry had a strong urge to do something.

Draco sighed heavily, his arms resting on his knees. “I don’t know. I kept thinking, yesterday, about Rebecca being a widow and about her wand. I think whatever killed her first husband killed her too, and captured her wand.”

“Do you know how her first husband died?”

“No idea,” Draco said quickly. His ponytail was over his shoulder and as he moved the hair glinted, like a small flame in the water cave. “He was a Slughorn, we know that. Very ambitious family. Used to be all over the Ministry, but the branch has been dying out slowly. I think not enough marriages.”

That… wasn’t much of anything. And they didn’t know _how _Rebecca had died. She might have died of a disease or in childbirth and one of Perseus’ children might have sold the wand at a later time. It might not have anything to do with her first husband. This was the kind of thought and conclusion that Harry was so adamantly against in the Auror Office. He had scolded many pupils as well as colleagues and superiors for building theories with no evidence. But here he was, listening to Draco do the same.

“It wasn’t that, though,” said Draco, his voice coming beautiful and clear.

“What?”

“That wasn’t the thought. It was something else,” Draco said impatiently. He shifted on his seat. Draco looked effortlessly comfortable and decadent anywhere; looking, however, was different from being. The sand was stupid and there was no way to sit on it. “It was something else. An idle thought I had. Something stupid about what it could had been that killed them. Like poison or house elf murder or being trampled by a rhino. You know, very improbable things.”

Harry didn’t think that poison was that improbable. He had seen his fair amount of poison cases. House elf murder was more unlikely. Maim and incapacitate, perhaps, but never murder.

“Why was it important if it was impossible?” he asked, trying to sound very gentle.

“Because I thought ‘Ha! That might be what happened to— ’ and I lost it. It was something that related nicely to something else. Something that I thought about recently, and I lost it and for a second it was a very good thought.”

Harry had gotten sand under his fingernails. It was very bothersome. The ripples in the water were fading but not completely. Even in the darkness, the special darkness of the cursed cave, Harry’s eyes were following the movement of the inferi under the water. They knew the two of them were there and they were alert. Of course the place went mostly unvisited so they were bound to notice the two wizards sitting on the lakeshore.

“I realise how flimsy all this sounds,” Draco looked sick under the faint green light.

“It really does,” Harry answered because he was too tired for dishonesty. The line of Draco’s mouth curved downwards in a grimace. “But here we are. You know, in our sixth year, I was convinced that you were planning something. I had no proof, no evidence, but I just knew. It drove me crazy. The year before there had been a campaign saying I was mental and it wasn’t half as bad because at least my close friends believed me. But that year…” He stopped a second to exhale through his nose. What a waste of a stupid year surrounded by stupid adults. “That bloody year everybody thought I was making things up and exaggerating and seeing things, and you know what? I wasn’t. I was right. You were plotting something.”

Draco was silent and still and, Harry knew, very, very tense. It might be that his thought hadn’t sounded exactly as Harry wanted it to.

“So your intuition might be right too,” Harry finished, and then added quickly, “we are here and we have time.”

“Is this how you usually conduct your Auror investigations?” asked Draco tentatively.

“No, I usually drag them over the coals when they give unsubstantiated conclusions, we are not the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol.”

“I should hope so,” Draco said softly, but suddenly more relaxed at the way Harry spoke, the scoff at the non-dark-arts policing body as well as the admission that Harry required more than what Draco was giving. Draco was a complicated creature, he didn’t like it when he was told he was right.

“The thought is flimsy,” Harry went on kindly, because he also did that too, when a young Auror insisted on a hunch but couldn’t explain why. “Let’s make it sturdy. We will start at the beginning. Slughorn’s death. Why would he die?”

Draco’s voice was hiding his relief. His mouth, on the other hand, didn’t hide anything. He was smiling at Harry and it was like seeing the moon come over the horizon. “Could be many things. Maybe just a common illness. But if I were to suspect foul play, I would say some intrigue at the Ministry. Either someone wanted him out of his seat or he tried to remove someone powerful and failed.”

Now they were talking. Sure, they were speculating, but they were also speculating about how and why Regulus and Fred had returned to life. It seemed that throwing out wild ideas to see what stuck was their only method.

“Right. So, which position are we talking? Assistant to the Minister?” Harry shifted in place and came to rest a tad bit closer to Draco. He had to twist a bit almost immediately because there had been more movement in the water. “They seem very… territorial.”

The Assistants to the Minister (Junior and Senior) were fucking crazy, was more like it. One of them had taken to wearing chainmail for a couple of months.

Draco pursed his lips. “Could be. But that requires a lot of energy to achieve and maintain. I think the Slughorns are more of the long-term and discreet type. Head of a department.”

“Head of a department,” Harry repeated. That made sense. You would be king of your own little kingdom and certain departments had a lot of power and influence. “Treasury?”

“Sounds about right. Wizengamot, too. And your office, of course. Some people have done some interesting things in International Cooperation, but it depends on the person.”

That was the main problem. Games and Sports could be a silly department or could be the one to bring the wizarding world to a stop, depending on how good the Quidditch season was. Transportation seemed boring and lacklustre, absolutely lifeless, but there had been quite a lot of social change coming from then in the last few years. More excitement than in Creature Control and _they _were the guys dealing with fire and fangs.

“Every time there has been a change or turmoil, they go for the Auror Office head-on,” Harry said. “But in the end, it is actually not that important strategically. Aurors have a lot of independence.”

“Really?”

“It didn’t do anything for Voldemort, did it?”

“No. I suppose not. Having the Wizengamot should have been enough to bend the law to his liking, and he had the cabinet, too.” Draco said. He too moved a bit on his sandy seat, absentmindedly, and came closer to Harry. His fingers were almost touching Harry’s. “The Department of Mysteries, too. I think it was less useful than he expected. I remember hearing something when— ”

But Draco didn’t say anything else, so Harry finished it for him. “When he stayed at your house.”

Draco didn’t speak. Harry wasn’t sure if the topic had made him uncomfortable or if he had thought of something. He looked down at their hands, resting on the sand and almost touching. Draco was digging his fingers into the sand.

“Lestrange infiltrated the Department of Mysteries during the first war.”

“That’s what Regulus said.”

“Who is the current Head of the Department?”

“Aetius Quinn,” Harry answered quickly, accompanied by the shudder that the name always provoked. What a perfectly polite and clean-cut gentleman and how Harry disliked him.

“He was also the Head during the first war,” Draco said slowly, his gaze lost in the green glimmer of the lake.

That wasn’t unusual. Many people who worked in the Ministry in the first war were still there for the second. Mister Weasley, for example.

“Bowden, Umbridge, Dumbledore, Fudge, umm Bones, I think, then Crouch.” Draco recited. “Heads of the Wizengamot. Robards, MacNair, Scrimgeour, Hale, maybe someone else and Scamander. Auror Office. Higgins, Crouch again, Slughorn, not the one we are talking about, I think either a Slughorn or a soft Lestrange before him. All Heads of International Cooperation. Can you name another Head of the Department of Mysteries?”

Harry could not name another Head of the Department of Mysteries.

“Not even during the second war,” mused Draco. “There was a Death Eater in the Auror Office, and who was in Mysteries? Same guy.”

“Voldemort didn’t remove everyone,” Harry pointed out. Not that at the time he had known in detail what was going on in the Ministry, but he had had plenty of time afterwards during the trials. Some people had stayed at their posts because that was all they could do. He remembered something about espionage and high-level officials being under surveillance. “He would have promised cooperation.”

“Yes,” Draco said slowly. Their hands were definitely touching now. Fingers brushing together. 

One of the inferi leaped out of the water, like a salmon, for no good reason. They startled and Harry was standing on his feet in seconds. But the inferius was down underwater again and it didn’t seem that any of them were going to try to leap to the shore.

“I wonder who the Head of the Department of Mysteries was at the time of Rebecca Nott,” Draco said, unaware that he was saying something like a vow or like the breaking of a promise. Something powerful.

They had it, but they didn’t know they had it. Much like they didn’t know there was something hunting them.

Harry was thinking of Thompson and Treeroot and how the brain tank accident had changed them. It had been pretty fortunate because everyone forgot all about pestering Harry for his ability to hear voices from beyond the Veil. He wondered if Rodolphus had gone through a similar accident. None of this had anything to do with the matter at hand, which was the two resurrected young men dying in his house and the attack by someone holding an eighty-year-old wand. But that is the way thoughts work, they come and go as they please. You will try to direct them down a certain path but many other branches will open instead.

“Unspeakables aren’t very forthcoming with their work,” Harry said, still looking at the lake. He was reluctant to sit back down even though he had been so close to Draco. “But I suppose Quinn would know who his predecessor was.”

It was two inferi this time. Not leaping, but showing their heads out of the water and slowly turning towards them. Harry would have casted _incendio_ and thrown some flames their way, except he was curious about that behavior and wanted to see a little bit more. He made a mental line in the lake, taking a funny shaped peak as a point of reference. If anything crossed it, he would fill the lake with flames. Otherwise, he was taking a minute to see what the inferi did. There was good information about them, but few in depth studies.

“Why would a former Head of the Department of Mysteries want to attack you?” Draco had also gotten up and was brushing the sand out of his clothes. “Killing the Slughorn because he got too cheeky and tried to take his place, yes, fine. Hardly the first time that happened to a Slughorn. Killing the devoted widow when she doesn’t believe it was an accident. Fine again. Make her disappear and look like an accident. And then what?”

Harry had a few ideas. He had seen some weird stuff as an Auror. “Quinn learns about it and makes him leave his post.”

“It would take some courage to blackmail the person who killed two people.”

“Meh.” Harry shrugged and glanced at Draco. He had seen Quinn, the man of prey. He was scary and made his skin crawl. He didn’t doubt that he could have scared his predecessor out of the position. “The man survived Voldemort twice.”

“And now his old boss has returned.”

Someone powerful and murderous. Someone who had erased all trace of his name. Harry was sure now that it was only the cursed influence of the cave that allowed them to think that thought. There was a spell keeping them from thinking of it which wasn’t so strange when they had things like the _fidelius_ and the Ministry itself routinely used mind-wiping spells on the muggle population. Still, someone ought to remember and mention the previous Head. His name must be somewhere in the archives of the department.

Harry wondered, with a shudder, who had cast that spell? Was it Quinn’s old boss because he didn’t want to be captured? That would be an amazing feat of powerful magic then. Quinn might have forgotten that he had extorted his way to that position, then. Or,

Or was it the ministry and its trained memory wizards? And in that case, whatever had he done? What had happened that the Ministry thought should be forgotten?

“If you don’t have any other thoughts, we should get going,” Harry said to Draco. They were both beginning to sniffle from the cold.

“Yes,” Draco agreed, coming to stand next to him. “Let’s go.”

ooOoo

The thought came as they were standing outside the cave, huddling together. Harry didn’t think that they had been in the cave that long but it had been very dark when they stepped outside. Nothing like the unnatural darkness of the cave, but still dark and dangerous. The sea and the cliff and the beach were all a big mass of blackness, only the clouds in the sky were distinguishable, pale silver tendrils like the cloak of a giant dementor. A wave crashed, soaked their feet with icy water and Draco cried out, “Wait! Wait! Go back!” The door had closed by then, so Harry had to make a second cut and shed some blood again. The cut was hardly a problem; opening his jacket and shirt and exposing his skin to the cold was more bothersome. This time Draco’s eyes were on him the entire time, but there was hardly anywhere else he could look.

Draco took two quick steps into the cave and came to a stop, his hands extended away from him. He looked like when he had seen Regulus and Fred for the first time and realized who they were. Harry followed him, after kicking a rock to hold the door, and made a small line of fire and set it on the shoreline. Their second entrance had alerted the inferi and they were grouping together.

“Why would the new Head of the Department of Mysteries leave the former Head alive?” Draco said as if he were studying a lesson or giving a presentation. “Why leave an enemy to come back and kill you? Nobody does that. Only Voldemort, and that unwillingly.”

Well, Dumbledore had left Grindelwald live, and Harry had pardoned quite a few lives, allowed a couple of suspects to escape… He had helped Draco, although by the time he got him out of the burning room Draco had already shown some good qualities so he hardly counted as an enemy. Not like that wild mountain witch who had stabbed Harry twice, and he still let her go.

(She had been so scared. Harry could understand her point of view. He kept the knife, though.)

“It was him,” Draco said in a firm tone. There was a big ripple in the lake as the inferi moved, their heads rising out of the water and looking at them. Harry couldn’t see them well with the pale, feeble light that came through the door.

“Aetius Quinn, Head of the Department of Mysteries since who-knows-when. He has the wand of his former boss’ victims and he is the one who wants his death-subjects back. He is the one chasing after Regulus and Fred.”

Draco wasn’t right but he wasn’t very far away from the truth, either.

There was a wet empty sound as the water of the lake hit the rock and sand of the shore. The inferi were moving in circles.

ooOoo

They could have apparated separately to Grimmauld Place; this time they both knew where they were going. But the ledge outside the cave was small and slippery, the wind strong, the sea tide high. Harry was looking forward to taking Draco’s arms again and he relished the brief moment when their hands clasped against each other’s forearms. Draco had a good grip, strong and firm, for all that he looked thin and quick and delicate. Harry really wanted to kiss him right then.

Instead, he apparated them away.

(pop)

Right in front of number 12 Grimmauld Place. 

Harry was so quick and smooth that at first it looked as if Draco had tripped himself rather than been pushed back and sent to the ground. The wind was gone, and so was the smell of the sea. It was raining, though, hard and fast.

“Stay back,” hissed Harry, without looking back at him. He had his left arm extended forward and bent slightly in a defensive position. His wand was held firmly in his right hand. He climbed slowly and silently up the front steps to the door.

Only there was no door.

There was no ceiling, either. Looking up Harry could see one of the bedrooms on the first floor. Both the doors to the dining and living rooms were missing. There was a chunk of wall missing from the corridor and the damage extended further inside the house and in the stairs. There was something on the stairs.

There was quite a bit of floor still, even if it was littered with debris and dark streaks of blood.

“Draco, stay outside, please,” Harry said in a whisper. Draco was looking at the scene over Harry’s shoulder. He had his wand ready, at least, which was a good instinct even if unwelcome at the moment.

“No,” he said simply. He went to cast _lumos_ but Harry stopped him before the wand managed more than a flicker. It was better not to use any lights until you were sure that the scene was clean.

He put a foot inside the house and after making sure that the floor could support him, Harry went in.

“Stay back,” he hissed again. From where he was Harry could see that the dining room was empty. There was a big pile of debris, parts of the big table and the chairs, and something could be hiding in there. He wanted to check the living room first, though.

“No way,” Draco answered back in an angry hiss. “My dog is in there.”

There was no one in the living room and Harry felt his stomach drop. There was no one in there. In the back of the room was a yellow tablecloth that belonged to Luna. Harry had learned to recognized the yellow pattern quickly, because Luna kept the spider ointment wrapped in that cloth. The coffee table that usually sat between the sofas had been smashed and was missing all its legs. At least three vases were broken on the floor. He didn’t even check if his painting was all right, all Harry could see were the signs of a fight. The chair that had been knocked over when someone ran past it. The askew clock on the wall. The armchair that someone had pushed out of the way. The footprints over the dried blood.

Right at Harry’s feet was a bent and twisted fire poker. There was also blood, a mixture of drops and a dragging pattern going from the middle of the living room to the foyer where it made a big puddle. Then a trail of blood went towards the back of the house, to the stairs and the door to the library.

Draco had peered inside the dining room. He shook his head at Harry’s questioning sign. Nothing there, although Draco wasn’t properly trained so who knew if there was something hiding in a corner.

The house was quiet and cold. The attack must have taken place a couple of hours ago at the very least.

It wasn’t completely silent. A house never is. There is creaking and groaning from the old wood, windows that don’t close very well, chimneys that make a draught. Now there was the unfamiliar sound of the wind as it got inside the house, debris being pushed around; wood splinters and glass and loose pages of the newspaper. There was also something dripping, a dense slow liquid letting down big fat drops.

Draco wasn’t as quiet as Harry would have liked as he went into the living room and looked frantically in every corner. Harry could use that, though. Harry was moving as silent as cat, carefully making his way to the back of the house. If there was something there, it would be focussing on the noise Draco was making. If they tried attacking Draco, they would come across Harry before they reached him.

Something big and black and possibly horned was lying across the stairs, taking over at least seven steps. There was blood or some other liquid dripping from it. The glossy puddle was untouched, unlike the blood stains by the entry that had been trodden on.

Harry took two more steps past the stairs that went up to the first floor. There might be something down the stairs to the kitchen or it might be in the library. Harry had to think and choose because checking one meant giving his back to the other.

He passed his wand to his left hand (he had done that once when fighting a Death Eater and the woman had stopped and asked what the fuck he was doing, as if using your wand with either hand were a weird thing). Harry licked his right hand quickly, from the wrist to the fingertips. His skin tasted like salt and sand. He put the hand over the dark gap of the kitchen stairs.

Nothing.

He took his wand in his right hand again and put a soft barrier spell on the stairs. Nothing that couldn’t be crossed, especially by someone or something that had managed to get inside the house. But it would make noise and that was all Harry needed: to be facing his enemy.

It had been just one minute and fifteen seconds since he had seen the missing door and had pushed Draco to the ground. Draco was now standing at the foot of the stairs looking at him. He looked absolutely wretched. His eyes had never been so far away and yet so reaching, as if begging Harry to please go get him, go rescue Draco from a remote plain.

Harry motioned at the stairs, up and down, and then at his eyes and Draco. Draco nodded in understanding and came to stand back-to-back with Harry, facing the stairs. His eyes were shining with tears and his chin was trembling. Harry wondered if he had seen the bloody pawprint near the baseboard.

The library door was open. Harry just needed to give it a little push.

There was something inside. Harry knew it before he touched the door. He could sense the tension and he could hear the hitched breath, the desire not to make any noise. There was also the sound of something touching something else, like a hand lying on someone’s back to offer comfort or a hand grabbing a wand tighter or a claw tensing in anticipation.

He pushed the door.

There was a yelp, a high-pitched exclamation that managed to cast a spell and a burst of purple sparkles sizzling and spluttering on the door, roughly where Harry’s head ought to have been if Harry were standing instead of kneeling. Nevertheless the sparkles ruined his night vision so Harry counteracted with a _lumos maximus_ that lighted the whole room.

Fred was there. He was the one Harry saw first. Eerily pale except for the red mark on his face, pointing his wand at the door, standing tall. Regulus was to his right, a big gash crossing his face and the upper part of his chest, still bleeding. He was also pointing a wand. Luna was between them, on the floor, so she was the last one Harry saw. She was propped against the wall and surrounded with undefined stuff, a pile of books to keep her right arm up, a vase, something swaddled in a blanket. She moved her right arm feebly, attempting to rise her wand, so at least Harry knew she was conscious. Her face and her hair were dirty with blood. The wet patch in her lap looked like blood, too.

Harry stood up. He kept his left hand up and open, showing his open palm to them. His right was tight over the wand.

Now, these could be his friends, hurt but miraculously alive, or it could be a trick. If they had half-listened to Harry they ought to be thinking the same. It could be Harry or it could be the monster in disguise. What better way to gain someone’s trust than to pretend to be the hero coming to the rescue?

Luna’s left hand was resting on top of something that could be Fenton. Harry couldn’t tell with the blanket. Draco was inching closer. He was supposed to watch the stairs but he was obviously trying to see if his dog was inside. Harry couldn’t be angry. Draco wasn’t a trained Auror and it was his dog. A wonderful lovable dog.

“Fred likes the melon soap,” Harry said with a single breath, as if he were reciting a desperate praying. “Regulus I think prefers the blackberry, honestly I can’t recall right now. He likes crosswords. Luna has a purple vulture called Sevila.”

Luna began to cry. Regulus and Fred both took a big breath and lowered their wands.

“Is it them then? Where is Fenton?”

Harry extended his arm, stopping Draco from coming inside. “Can anyone tell me,” …what to ask? What to ask and prove it was really them? “… something interesting about Draco?”

Regulus snorted. He looked very tired. “That bloody tattoo.”

“Fenton is here,” called Luna.

Thank bloody Merlin.

ooOoo

Draco barged into the room and ran to Fenton’s side. Harry stayed behind to put two good wards on the library door. The house seemed empty of threats, but nevertheless; it didn’t hurt.

Regulus and Fred were speaking at the same time. Luna was trying to say something. Draco was stroking Fenton’s black fur and crying unashamedly as he gave thanks to all the gods. The dog was asleep under a charm, but he moved his tail when he felt Draco’s hand.

Harry ignored the noise and focussed on the task at hand. Regulus was bleeding. Fred had a big bruise under his eye that was swelling quickly. Luna was the one who didn’t stand up so she needed the most urgent care.

Her right arm had been pulled out of her socket and the upper bone was broken. She had claw marks in her belly, but the cuts were swallow. The tremor in her hands indicated some nerve curse; her pallor could be the shock, the pain, or a dark hex.

Harry wasn’t exactly a trained mediwizard, but he knew how to give medical care after combat. Getting the arm back in its socket was difficult and painful. He knew that another wizard could have done a better job and caused Luna less pain and that knowledge burned Harry. Mending the bone, however, was fast and easy and Luna sighed in relief. The area would be swollen and tender for a few hours, though. Even if the bone was mended, it took the body a while to learn and calm down.

Next were the cuts, which should be cleaned before Harry closed them. Some fortifying potions were in order.

Since Harry was leaving the library anyway, he went and made a door to the street. Nothing remained of the original door so he had to use the dining room table and transform it. He didn’t do a very good job, Harry was far better at charms than he was at transfiguration, but it covered the threshold and stopped the wet cold air coming inside, so that was something.

He returned with the potions. Luna was still looking pale but more alert. She was explaining to Draco that Fenton had been injured and she had had to make him sleep so his whining wouldn’t give them away. But she knew what to do and she could heal him now. She didn’t seem to notice the claw wounds in her belly, or the bruises, now that Harry saw her move. She might have a twisted ankle, too.

Fred made a quip about being fine and not dead, thanks for asking Draco. Draco laughed through a sob and said that he had no problem in admitting that he loved Fenton better than anyone else in the room. Fenton was _good_ and _innocent_ and Draco was going to just _murder_ whoever had hurt him. Murder. At Fred’s question he admitted that he would probably also resort to murder if any of them had been killed or seriously wounded, but because of the injury to his dog this murder was going to be extremely prejudiced.

“I don’t see any problem with it,” Regulus said. He was lying down on the floor, applying pressure to his wounds as instructed.

“Poor Frenton!” said Fred, extending his arm so he could pet the sleeping dog too. Of course Fred called him Frenton. Once or twice Harry had heard Draco call him that too. Fenton, Frenton, Fenny and just once Fentus Bentus Malfoyibus. Draco didn’t know that Harry had heard that one and he had turned scarlet anyway, just at the possibility of being overheard.

Slowly the room came under control. Harry healed Luna and she in turn healed Fenton, who woke up and began licking Draco’s hands and face madly. Next was Regulus. Harry cleaned his wounds and closed them and gave him a potion for the blood loss. Fred had bruises all over and after Harry’s careful examination he found that he also had two broken ribs.

“All right,” Harry said. It felt like he kept saying that when things were not all right but he wanted them to be. “What happened?”

ooOoo

None of them were Aurors and they would never be. They were the kind of witnesses who made Ron roll his eyes and say “All right, Madam, let’s start at the beginning. You woke up. What did you have for breakfast?” and walk them minute by minute through the day until they got to the interesting event and you realized that what they initially described as a half a dozen harpies was actually twenty-six grindylows.

Something had broken into the house and Harry was leaving it at that. Their accounts were too different to take any of them seriously. Understandable, too. Fred had been dozing while Regulus, who couldn’t sleep because of the cough, did the crossword with Luna’s help. She had been sitting on the floor next to him, a tiny comb in her hands so she could clean the feathers of the magma snake.

And then there had been a loud crash that might or might not have been preceded by the howl of the wind or by an incantation sung in a guttural voice. There had been a loud crash and the door was not anymore. It wasn’t broken or pushed or forced open, it simply wasn’t. The walls around the door groaned as if in pain.

Then the thing had gotten inside. Just as big as the missing door. Horned and clawed, standing on animal legs although they didn’t agree if they were hooves or claws or paws. The front legs or arms, whatever they were, were definitely claws.

According to Fred, Luna—tiny Luna (who wasn’t short by any measure but was shorter than any of them)—had charged at the monster with the rage and ferocity of those tiny little animals, the cute furry ones that ate bloody cobras.

“Mongoose,” said Regulus. He had crawled over to sit next to Luna, his back against the wall.

Like a mongoose. She had even put two good _reductos_ on the thing before, before it— it slashed at Luna with its claws. It was all irregular and difficult to recall after that. Little vignettes that might make a whole picture or might just hint at one. They knew that Fenton had barked madly, but he hadn’t barked before the door went poof. He had also lunged at the monster and attacked its legs. That must have been when it clawed Luna or maybe when it grabbed her arm and threw her in the air, sending her into the opposite wall of the dining room.

(How she hadn’t broken more bones Harry didn’t know.)

The monster had kicked Fenton and lashed out at him, but didn’t get to claw him because Fred got a good hit on its arm with the fire poker. Then Fred picked himself up from the floor, three metres away. He didn’t know how he had gotten there.

Regulus had been clawed when he stood in front of Luna. Pushed away as if he were nothing. He had bought her enough seconds to get up and cast another charm, but it was obvious that they were losing, that this thing didn’t just have the advantage of surprise, but of strength and size and possibly magic. It reacted to magic but their charms and hexes did very little.

It went after Luna. They were sure of it. It was trying to neutralise her. Fred kept hitting it with the fire poker and a surprising amount of strength that the panic had brought. The monster had grabbed the fire poker and pulled it out of Fred’s hands, but it hadn’t thrown him in the air as it did with Luna. By then Regulus was in his grip, a huge claw closing around his neck and the open wounds. It was tight and Regulus saw black spots over his eyes, but not so tight that he passed out. Not so tight that he couldn’t cast a hex non-verbally. A slashing thing that Severus Snape had taught him four years ago. (Actually thirty.)

Luna remembered casting _expecto patronum_ because that was what Harry had taught them. Even if they weren’t fighting a dementor it might do something, give her hope at the very least. It had been a wonderful idea. Her hare had jumped up to the monster’s head and Luna had grabbed Regulus’ arm, or he had grabbed her, they both argued the point hotly, and they had run. Fred was with them with poor Fenton whining in his arms. Nobody knew how Fred had gotten there, not even him. He remembered being hit with something big and hard across his chest that made him double over and throw up a mixture of bile and blood. He thought he might have made some magic unaware, like when he and George were children. Not just non-verbal and wandless but thoughtless too. He remembered scooping Fenton up because although the dog was limping on his front leg, he was still going after the monster.

They had run to the stairs but the monster had lashed out with either fire, a stinging curse, or a blade. Either way, they had given up on the stairs and kept running down the corridor which was a terrible idea because there was always a strategic advantage to having the high ground. But they were not thinking clearly. There had been a roar that gave sense to the idea that blood could curdle. It was roar that stopped hearts and made blood thicken, turning it to ice. Luna had passed out just about then and her _patronus_ had vanished. They had entered the library, Regulus dragging her body and Fred following behind.

Fred got tears in his eyes when he tried to describe how it had felt, that second roar from the monster once the _patronus_ hare had vanished. It had set its eyes on them, pearly white and full of malevolence (this was the first time they described its eyes, by the way, and Harry thought it was extremely interesting), and it had roared. Not an animal roar, Fred was very adamant about that. A bear, a lion, even a dragon didn’t make that kind of sound.

Regulus had fallen to his knees, shivering. He said that he had felt as if all the nightmares he had ever had had caught up with him at once. Fred had remained standing, not so much for courage but because his knees had locked.

“It was like… forgetting. I forgot everything,” he cried. Draco was sitting cross-legged next to him with Fenton in his lap. Fred buried a hand in the dog’s fur and held his paw like one would hold a hand.

Fred had forgotten his name and that he was a twin. He had forgotten magic and the feeling of flying on a broom. He had forgotten summer and the colour yellow.

What was left? What was left of Fred when everything else was taken from him?

The chaos.

The prankster bent.

Fred had risen his wand and flicked it forward because he had something in his mind, a spark, and he had recently learned a word for it and that it wasn’t commonly known and that it could be used to play.

A small flame had erupted on Fred’s wand and with the same motion he had sent it forwards, all the way across the corridor and to the foyer.

Funnily enough, Draco could guess almost instantly what had happened next.

“Dear God, Potter! I told you that it was a hazard!”

“No. You said it was a mess and a tripping risk and nothing else.”

The foyer that during these weeks had accumulated a big box of fireworks (not bought at _Weasley’s Wizards Wheezes_), over a dozen bottles of gin (Harry had lost count of how many remained), a sack of yarn, a tin of cocoa, a small package of flour, a disgusting cheese and a sock that no one knew where it came from.

Out of everything, the flame had avoided landing on the bottles, the tin of cocoa and the disgusting cheese, which were the only things that were not instantly flammable. There had been a small fire and five seconds later an explosion, followed by a bigger second explosion.

And that was why the ceiling was missing and why the top half of a monster was currently embedded in the stairs.

Afterwards, they had dragged themselves to the back of the library and waited to see if any other monster came after them, too exhausted to do anything else.

ooOoo

Harry had a goofy smile on his face and the dead monster was only half the reason for it.

“I can’t believe it!” Harry said, sounding perhaps a bit too excited given the situation. “You fought a Demon and won! You have _no_ idea how rare that is.”

“What kind of muggle nonsense is that?” Draco said, petting Fenton one last time and getting to his feet.

“It’s not nonsense! It’s a very rare dark creature. First seen in the tenth century by Alc…”

Harry walked out of the library, chattering excitedly about the lucky fellow who first got to see one of those monsters and lived to record the experience in a book. When they followed him they found him on the stairs, bending down to look at the head of the monster. He gave them some instructions. Vanishing the worst of the debris, casting some extra wards on the unsightly new door and windows. One shouldn’t be able to force their way into a magical house and all previous attempts had failed. Apparently they should all be excited that the Demon had done it.

Regulus took his wand out and sarcastically conjured a cloud of confetti. The papers had the word _commendable_ written on them.

“I can’t just throw this away,” Harry said to no one in particular. “I should keep this and study it. Maybe I can put it in the kitchen for the time being.”

“For the love of all that is good, Harry Potter, do not put the monster in the kitchen.”

“Well, where else would I put it, Draco?”

Draco didn’t say, but his face said he had a suggestion and it wasn’t physically possible in any case.

Harry took the Demon downstairs. He returned with Aeneas perched on his shoulder (what kind of bird fled underground rather that flying up and away?) and a teapot of strong tea that everybody drank in silence. They didn’t begin to relax—relax wasn’t the word, _unclench_ was more like it, until Harry checked on the wards again and added an iron bar to the door. Even so they were still on edge except for Harry who was… happy wasn’t the word either. _Pleased_, perhaps. He was quite pleased.

The Demon that had attacked them was called so because that’s what the medieval muggles called it, although back then the difference between muggles and wizards wasn’t so obvious. They were so rare that the name had stuck simply because there wasn’t any other word better suited for them. Information about them was scarce both because it was very hard to survive them and because they were, fortunately, very hard to create.

“Create?” asked Fred, still nursing his cup of tea. He was looking at the leaves with a puzzled expression, much like Ron when they were taking Divination.

“Oh, yes!” Harry said. He never looked at the leaves in his cup and when possible he used teabags instead. “They are freaks of nature and don’t form naturally. Like a Basilisk, that have to be hatched consciously and willingly. They don’t appear accidentally, at least I don’t think so. That would be super weird. What are the chances of that happening?”

Nobody knew, because they didn’t know what it took to get a Demon in the first place. Harry was happy to tell them, though, which explained his weird excitement. _Demons_, although one should use the singular here because no one had ever seen two of them at the same time, were the result of a mix between a dementor and a soul-less monster. Dementors were already strange creatures which didn’t have traditional births. They didn’t mate, they were just formed when a place was full of misery.

Regulus said that he had never stopped to think how a dementor was born and now he had the thought in his head, thank you very much. Draco snickered and made a quick note in his notebook.

So you had to have a dementor and any other soul-less monster. A grindylow or a boggart would do, a werewolf would not. The Demon was created when, for whatever reason, the dementor attempted to suck the soul of a living being with no soul.

The difficulty was evident because if dementors were good at one thing and one thing only, it was locating souls. It was an instinct, something that worked mechanically and without thought. But dementors had an intellect of sorts. Enough that they could understand a language and follow orders and decide that Lord Voldemort was offering them a sweeter deal than anything the Ministry could propose. It was through this, Harry theorized, that the Demon could be formed. A mind could be tricked and mistaken. Someone powerful and well-versed in casting illusions and mirages could deceive a dementor long enough to get them to suck a soul that wasn’t there.

And then you would have the monster, a Demon. Something that didn’t have all the powers of a dementor but could bring horror and misery, something with horns and claws or paws, depending on the creature used. Something terrible and dangerous that should never have been. Like a horcrux. Harry had no idea how you would go about controlling it, but he was sure that there would be a way.

He told them all this while Luna coaxed the magma snake out of the chimney in the living room where it had taken refuge during the panic. It was taking her a while. She almost had it until Aeneas decided to help by jumping into the fireplace and hooting.

“A master illusionist,” Draco said, sitting cross-legged and petting Fenton on the head. He looked at Harry.

Well, yes. Someone who could create and control a _Demon_, someone able to confuse a dementor, which were blind, should also be able to make everyone forget his or her name.

Harry put two fingers on his throbbing right temple and pressed. He was very tired, losing the adrenaline from the fright of seeing the house empty and attacked and then from the excitement of the unique bizarreness of the monster. It might be callous, but the Demon was groundbreaking in more than the literal sense.

“How was the lake, by the way?” asked Regulus. He was hovering around Luna, looking at her while he asked the question. Then he briefly glanced at Harry’s painting which had miraculously avoided any damage. Harry was very relieved. At some point last summer he had gone back to the shop, thinking he might get another painting by the same artist as a birthday gift to himself and he had found that they didn’t have any more. The painter wasn’t very prolific and the seven works the gallery had were all sold.

Harry wondered what that artist could do with something like the lake in the cave. If they would depict all the horror that lay there or if they could make it less terrible.

“Not as big as I remembered,” lied Harry, in answer to Regulus. “I thought the ceiling was higher, too.”

Draco looked at him, puzzled, because the ceiling of the cave was as high as Hogwarts’ Great Hall. Then he followed Harry’s eyes to Regulus and then Draco even looked at the painting, his face relaxing in understanding even though whenever Draco so much as _glanced_ at Harry’s beautiful painting he lifted a shoulder and curled his lips and scrunched his nose. As if he couldn’t stand facing the painting, all because apparently one of the arches wasn’t well drawn.

But he didn’t say anything this time and he gave Harry a calm look. Then he bent over and kissed the top of Fenton’s head.

“We had a good discussion,” Harry went on. “Draco noticed something about the Head of the Department of Mysteries that might be useful. More so now that an impossible monster attacked the house.”

He explained. They listened with more attention and trust that the story deserved, frankly. Regulus, being the earliest born if not the eldest in the group (he was actually the youngest now, how about that?) tried to remember anything about the Department of Mysteries but came up with nothing. He blinked in puzzlement. Regulus took pride in his memory.

Just around then Luna finally got the magma snake to crawl into her hands. She petted it carefully, keeping it near her chest. She had the most tender smile on her face and even though she was still bruised and had dried specks of blood on her skin, and her hair was dirty and her clothes torn and dusty, she was beautiful. Harry had to avert his eyes, embarrassed, at the way Regulus was looking at her.

She put the snake around her neck, letting it burrow under her clothes, and turned to Harry.

“Information about the previous Head of the Department of Mysteries?” she said. She had only been half-listening. “I can ask _The Quibbler_.”

“Luna, I don’t…” Harry began to say. It wasn’t exactly late. Harry didn’t mind answering calls before midnight. But it was late.

Luna shrugged. There was always someone at _The Quibbler_, even though it was still run from her father’s house. It was a pretty successful magazine now and they put out some interesting articles. Even though it usually came out weekly there was always someone writing through the night.

But perhaps not at this hour and on a Sunday, after they had put out this week’s edition. They left it for the next day and instead began to think about going to sleep. The ground floor was pretty much ruined and the first floor was missing a big chunk of floor so they had to climb to the second floor and to Harry’s bedroom. He brought a couple of mattresses from the other rooms and then left to make a show of putting yet another ward at the door, and even let Fred lay a thunder trap at the feet of the stair that would ensure that the house and probably the whole street would heard if someone stepped on them. It was more for everyone else’s sake so they could relax and fall asleep than because Harry thought that there would be another attack tonight

Whoever the master of that Demon was, he would be too baffled at the failure of the monster to plan anything else. That is the problem of using your best asset. When it fails, you have no back-up plan.

Luna was given Harry’s bed, the only one with a frame, at everyone’s insistence. Regulus and Fred fell onto another mattress. Regulus on his stomach and Fred on his back, their shoulders pressed together. It had been mere coincidence and necessity at first, both of them having to spend all their time and space together, but now it was comforting and they liked each other. Regulus waved his wand and the blanket acquired a pattern of dancing dragons so Fred wouldn’t be forced to sleep with _striped_ covers. Stripes were the worst.

Harry looked at the remaining mattress and at Draco and wondered how it would look if he said he was going to get another one. And then he wondered how it would look if he didn’t offer to give Draco his own bed. He feared that no matter what, he would say exactly the wrong thing and manage to sound lewd and/or uninterested at the same time. He was confident in his ability to say it wrong.

Draco took the decision out of his hands by flopping down on the remaining mattress and then scooting over, clearly leaving space for another person. Harry followed him, burning to touch Draco while also trying to lie down without touching Draco or the mattress or being noticeable in any way.

Harry was very tired. Thoughts and images flashing before his eyes like the floating lights in Hogwarts’ Great Hall. Morning seemed very far away. Regulus and Fred had both had a seizure. There had been blood everywhere. Draco had still been antsy. The visit to the lake seemed like a strange dream, as if he had taken a nap after too much liquor. The wet feeling on his skin, the taste of salt on his lips, the closeness to Draco, sitting there in the strange darkness of the cave. Completely unlike the soft darkness of the bedroom. Harry had left the lights in the corridor on and a warm orange light filtered inside the room.

There was or had been someone in the Department of Mysteries doing dark things. A monster seen only every other century that had attacked Harry’s house. There were Regulus and Fred and the thing Harry didn’t dare think. Just as Draco had been going in circles trying to approach a thought through different angles, Harry was very carefully not thinking about something, twisting this way and that to elude the thought.

Not thinking about something was easy, extremely easy. Usually it was not because as soon as a thought knows it’s unwelcome in a mind it will dig its claws in. But Draco was breathing softly next to Harry, sleeping on his side. He had removed his hair tie and his hair fell loosely over the pillow and his back. He looked very different with his hair like this, relaxed and unguarded. Of course Draco should be relaxed and unguarded if he was going to sleep but beyond that he looked… at ease. As if he didn’t care if anyone looked at him.

Fenton had come to him, of course, and was sleeping in the crook of Draco’s arms. It looked nice but not particularly comfortable since he was pressing his four legs on Draco’s stomach.

“You are half off the mattress, Fenton,” Harry said in a whisper. True, Fenton had his head and neck hanging off.

Draco snickered. He was awake after all. “At least he is not breathing on my face,” he said. Silly, inane words, but they put something in Harry’s stomach.

ooOoo

The next morning Harry made eggs and sausage and tomatoes for everyone. Fenton went with him to the kitchen because Fenton was always happy to accompany anyone to the kitchen. He got the scraped-out eggs from the pan and a bit of sausage for his help. If Fenton hadn’t been there, begging for Harry’s attention, Kreacher’s absence would have been more noticeable. It was noticeable now, but the sad cold feeling was tempered with Fenton’s presence, like a sharp rock that becomes smooth after years under the water. Fenton was the water.

No, water-dogs didn’t get a sausage for themselves. Oh, all right, there was a griffin bone somewhere. Fenton could have that.

No matter how magical you were, however, no matter your ability to put breakfast under a warmth spell so it wouldn’t get cold, tea still needed to steep for three to five minutes. Harry waited, leaning against the counter and thinking.

It had been twelve hours now since the realization. Twelve hours since the attack, give or take an hour. The two things might not be related, but they were, Harry knew they were. He didn’t know how exactly but the Department of Mysteries was doing something foul. In a way, Harry had always known that.

Fenton got up from the floor where he was happily crunching the bone and looked at the stairs, tail wagging. Seconds later Draco came down the stairs and into the kitchen. He had his hair loose and tangled and it fell over his face when he bent down to pet Fenton. He was wearing soft grey trousers and a pale pink t-shirt, as if it had once been white but was washed together with something red. He was beautiful. Harry’s mouth was suddenly dry.

Draco wished him good morning, said he was coming to see if he could prevent Harry from ruining the tea by taking the leaves out too soon and remarked on the Demon carcass that was in a far corner of the kitchen. Harry had put it under a keeping charm so it wouldn’t decay, so there should be no risk or complaint at the odour.

“Are you even listening to anything I say?” Draco sounded amused and comfortable.

“Yes! Yes of course,” Harry said quickly. He was listening. He always listened to whatever Draco had to say. He realised now, belatedly, that he had been staring, so it might look like he wasn’t paying attention. “Tea. Demon,” he said to show that he _was_ listening. “Conspicuous absence of recognition that the mess in the foyer was a handy protection rather than laziness on my part.”

Draco laughed at that. He was very close. His eyes, too, were much closer than usual. They were not far away beyond miles of ice and wind and high walls. They weren’t further than Draco’s bed which he had just left. He was _that_ close. His eyes were the colour of the shadows in a rumpled sheet.

Maybe it was because Draco still had creases of his pillow imprinted on his skin, his hair was messy and he had put his t-shirt on inside out. The Draco in Harry’s dreams never did that. This Draco was real and close and warm. The look he was giving Harry, though, that was a look from a dream.

“I want to kiss you,” Harry blurted and immediately made a face. He didn’t have the excuse of it being late at night and being tired and not knowing what he was saying. It was early morning, he was rested and in the cold light of the day he had said he wanted to kiss Draco Malfoy. “I really do.”

What was wrong with him, Harry wondered.

“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I realise that you might not want me to do that and that it would be very awkward and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or weird you out. I am so sorry! I really need you, you have been incredible help and I don’t know why I said that, other than I really want to kiss you. But I shouldn’t say it, because I can’t afford to make you uncomfortable. Not that I would want to make you uncomfortable at other times, but at the moment the stakes are higher. So I am not going to kiss you, don’t worry about that, even if I really want to.”

Dear Merlin, that was bad. Harry should go and put his head in the sink and drown himself. Draco’s initial surprise had given way to the more familiar amazement at how Harry could say the most stupid and outrageous things, so at least it didn’t come as a shock. Draco was used to judging Harry on many things.

He rolled his eyes magnificently, Draco did. Then he took the little step that separated them, put both hands on Harry’s face, and kissed him. _He_ kissed him.

Harry’s mind went blank

He, he, he just stopped. Stopped everything. Probably even stopped breathing. Most definitely stopped his heartbeat. All there was, was the feeling of Draco’s lips against his own, soft and open and tender; the feeling of his hands on the side of Harry’s face, fingers gently touching an earlobe; the warmth of his body touching Harry, arms, chest, thighs coming together. It was a kiss but it was also closeness and being allowed to touch and it was glorious.

Harry’s hand had gone to Draco’s arm unconsciously. One of them rose higher and got to Draco’s hair which wasn’t as soft as it looked but Harry found it charming. Then Draco broke the kiss and moved back slightly. He blinked at Harry. Grey was the softest and warmest colour.

“The tea will be bitter,” Draco said, as if it were that easy. As if it didn’t matter that he had taken Harry’s brain with that kiss.

Harry smiled because he couldn’t help smiling, he had lost all control of his face. He turned to look at the tea, that was indeed going to get too bitter, and wondered if this meant that Draco was going to kiss him some more in the future or if this was a one-time thing, if he had just given it to Harry to shut him up and get him to focus, if it didn’t mean that much to Draco.

Harry had gotten used to questioning people’s motives for some reason. Probably all the deception.

“By the way,” Draco said as Harry put the teapot on the tray. He was still soft and close and comfortable and he looked amazing in sleeping clothes. “Have you noticed that neither Fred nor Regulus have— ”

“Don’t say it,” Harry said quickly, and because he was feeling lucky and daring he shut Draco up with a quick kiss, nipping at his lower lip. “Don’t.”

“Oh.” Draco had a very nice smile and it was perfectly understandable that Harry had fixated so much on his mouth. “So you have noticed it, too!”

ooOoo

With the light of the morning the damage to the house was even more evident. Harry had fixed the big stuff, like the missing door, and they had cleaned up the worst of it but there were scratches and dust and dried blood on the walls that only disappeared when you pointed the wand directly at it. Unsurprisingly, Fred was incredibly talented at stain removal and even gave them a few pointers.

They had breakfast in the living room because that was what they were used to doing, but the room was in shambles. Harry thought briefly that he was glad that Kreacher was dead. Well, not that he was dead, but that he wasn’t seeing this. The crystal vase that had been in the family for generations had broken down into so many pieces that it was impossible to repair it. The chiffonier that someone had brought from India, made with scented woods, was stained with alcohol and flour and had many small holes and dents from the explosion.

Oh, and the main door was missing, of course. A good, big, sturdy door made in the nineteenth century from the wood of a druid tree. It had the crest of the Black family over the spyhole and an iron doorknocker in the shape of a winking demon. All that was gone and Harry’s quick attempt at substitution had nothing of the history or ornamentation of the old door.

Luna floo-called _The Quibbler_. Her call was answered by a young man called Damian who was absolutely exasperating.

“So what’s your friend’s name, again?” he asked, while Fred mimed tying a noose and hanging himself.

“He is not my friend,” answered Luna with her infinite patience. Really, she was very patient and very sweet. She didn’t sound the last bit irritated. “He is the Head of the Department of Mysteries. He has been working for the Ministry for a long time. I think it would be nice to run a little bio about him. Maybe his predecessor too.”

“Okay, okay. Just a sec.”

Damian disappeared and Luna waited, lying on her stomach and knocking her feet together. A few minutes later a woman’s head appeared in the fireplace.

“Okay, Luna, darling, Damian tells me you want us to print some Ministry propaganda on the Wizengamot.”

“The Department of Mysteries,” Luna answered smoothly. Fred was attempting to slice his wrists open with a piece of toast. “And I think they would oppose it strongly. Aetius Quinn is the current Head. I don’t know who his predecessor was.”

“Oh! That’s very good. Thank you dear. I will let you know what we find, see if there is something scandalous.”

“Goodbye, Clara.”

She got her head out of the fireplace and blinked at them. “Do you think they will be in trouble?” she asked, and added before Harry could say a word. “Because they would love it if it felt like a conspiracy.”

“Very possibly,” Harry answered. “No, don’t get up. I want you to call Ginny.”

“Ginny is the ex-girlfriend,” Regulus helpfully explained to Draco. Harry felt his heart take a harder beat. Draco could have done without the reminder.

“I will take you to your cottage and check how it is,” Harry said, coughing, “and afterwards I want you to stay with Ginny and her teammates for a few days.”

“No,” said Luna, as if Harry had asked her if she wanted another cup of tea.

“Luna, those girls are strong and violent. You will be safe there.” He couldn’t forget that the Demon had avoided injuring Regulus and Fred as much as it could, but didn’t do the same for Luna. She didn’t realise how close she had been to death.

Luna looked at him like a goddess looking down at a mortal. Her eyes were high and far away and perfectly serene. “Harry Potter, no.”

It was a no, then. No, she wouldn’t go to Ginny’s and no, she wouldn’t stay in her cottage surrounded by a dozen wards, a herd of thestrals and the big bad purple bird. No, after checking on the thestrals she was coming back and staying with them.

Harry hated leaving the house again so soon after what happened yesterday but there was no way he was letting Luna go alone. He checked all the wards of the house and then had everybody (magma snake included) move to the library. It was one of the safest rooms in the house and also one where they wouldn’t mind being locked in for a few hours.

Harry lit a fire and passed Draco a bag of floo powder. “At the first sign of trouble, you take everyone out. Don’t wait to confirm what it is, just go.”

Draco nodded and looked reassuringly calm. Regulus and Fred grinned at him, clutching the old wands that had become theirs. “I’ll take the snake with me,” Regulus said, his voice like a long drawn out note on a viola. Fred informed Harry that he would take Aeneas, so Harry shouldn’t worry.

Harry closed the door behind him and locked it. It could be forced open with a few different charms, but it would take time, and enough time might mean getting out of there and to a safe place. He did the same with the main door before turning to Luna and disapparating with her.

ooOoo

If the door to a wizard’s house is closed, it is not very easy to get in. It can still be done, of course, but it requires extra force of will and extra power. An open door is better. An invitation is best.

This is why once he was privy to the secret of the _fidelius_ Voldemort still knocked on the Potters’ door rather than barging in. He knew they weren’t expecting him. They would be unprepared and he wanted to save power for that blasted boy who was said to be a greater wizard than him, the boy that would defeat him.

He had knocked on the door and saved a lot of energy and all James Potter got out was a few warning words before he died. He hadn’t even had his wand with him. Just a few words and nothing else was all that stood between Voldemort and his goal once the door was opened.

Of course those words let Lily run. They allowed her to get to Harry’s room, stand in the door…

Someone had tried to enter Harry Potter’s house three times already. Someone had used pure sheer magic, cunning and brute force. Someone hadn’t gotten very far, had been beaten three times.

Someone had been so sure that it would work, every time. The first time, perhaps, it was understandable because the house was very old and old beings are powerful. Someone should know. The second time it was a case of bad luck. The girl should not have been there. Otherwise, Someone would have gotten an invitation inside and they would have walked away with the prize.

The third time was… come on! It was impossible to understand. Someone had watched on Sunday evening as Potter and the Slytherin tart left the house. Someone had gotten a strong whiff of the Smell of Death as the door opened and closed. The prize was still inside.

Someone was very powerful. That was true yesterday as well as now. Someone had power over minds and memories and perceptions. Someone had achieved what Voldemort and Grindelwald only dreamed of. Someone had retrieved a key from its hiding place and gone to the locked room and released the Demon from the mirror where it was imprisoned.

“There are two men in that house. Bring them to me alive. Do what you wish with the rest.”

Those had been the orders. That should have been the third and last attempt. Things tended to work out when they had the number three in them.

But the Demon hadn’t returned and when Someone had gone to the house to check they had found that the door had been replaced and the Smell of Death had a different aroma. They had called the Demon, they had pronounced the secret and cursèd name they had given it. Nothing.

The Demon had to be dead then. It was impossible but there was no other explanation and Someone was perplexed and vexed. A monster like no other, and it was dead.

Magic and cunning and force, and nothing had worked. Someone had been reduced to stalking. Not even that, since then Someone had had other things to attend to.

Someone had removed every trace of themselves, every shadow, but they couldn’t disappear, not completely. Power has to come from somewhere, there has to be an origin, a direction in which to kneel. One could disguise the source and the extent of that power, but there still had to be a point of release, an egress. Even if it was covered by a heavy door, barred and locked, in between the high walls that protected the source of power there was still the outline of a door.

The door required maintenance and certain sacrifices. One had to be seen in certain places even if one would be immediately forgotten. Feelings are stronger than memories and the feeling of having seen someone where someone was expected to be, the feeling of normalcy, was very powerful. An absence, on the other hand, left behind a lingering feeling of disquiet. It was dangerous.

Worst of all, something was happening. It was very difficult to describe because it related to powerful and unknown magic, to the magic of words and the mind and perception. But if one could use the idea of a closed door in the wall, then one could say that there had been a knock at that door.

That was what Someone felt. A knock at their door.

Someone wouldn’t say that it was fear. Fear was for weaker beings that could be killed, but it was something that they had to pay attention to. It wasn’t fear but it was danger and the possibility of losing the prize that belonged to them.

It wasn’t fear but it was alarm and danger. Someone was angry and impatient. Someone wanted to hurt, to inflict harm when before they would have been content with taking what was theirs and leaving oblivion and absence behind. Now they wanted to destroy, to raze, and to take, take, take.

They had waited enough. This was being far too difficult. And it was very annoying, that persistent knocking at the door.

ooOoo

“This is unusual behaviour, then?”

“Yes, Harry.”

Harry shrugged and pursed his lips. He thought that if he had wings, he too would climb on top of buildings and rest there. But apparently thestrals didn’t do that.

They had come to Luna’s cottage to find that the thestrals had dug at the fence until they could knock it over, and then they had flown to the roof of the cottage and the barn, from where they were looking down at Luna and Harry like a flock of pigeons. Sevila the purple vulture was perched on top of one of the biggest thestrals, looking angry and arrogant.

“That’s going to cause damage to the roof,” Harry pointed out. Neither building was designed to stand up under so much weight. He though he was seeing cracks already under the eaves.

Luna sighed tiredly but devoid of anger. “Probably. But I think they are upset about my comings and goings, the change of schedule. Not that thestrals usually care much about humans, you know, since most people can’t even see them. But…”

Like everything about her, Luna’s pack of thestrals was different. As much as people still liked thestral-pulled carriages, she wasn’t sure she wanted that for them, not if she couldn’t make sure that someone would talk to them and they would be treated properly. So she wasn’t raising them for carriages and for now she made her money from the by-products. Hair and fur and feathers and manure. The winter spiders she might sell to a Herbolarium, where she knew they would be treated well, but the thestrals were staying here.

Harry raised his hand and waved. A couple of thestrals flapped their wings back at him and the vulture made a horrifying gurgling sound.

“They like you,” Luna informed him.

Harry smiled. He liked them back. He thought that some people would appreciate having a thestral and riding it, rather than making it pull a carriage. But it had to be the right kind of person.

For some reason, he thought that Percy Weasley would be one of them. He chuckled at the thought. The Vice-Head of the Department of Transportation arriving at work on a thestral.

Harry helped Luna fix the meat for the thestrals, a couple of carcasses of old sheep from another farm. He watched her take the guts out and put them in buckets and was mesmerised by the image of the gentle blonde girl elbow deep in blood. Thank Merlin that she had a good heart, Luna played by rules of her own. She was one terrifying woman.

He accompanied her to the field where she placed the meat. Harry was starting to appreciate the painful beauty of the place. The moor, the wind, the loneliness of Lupin’s cottage. It was like a visual poem. Like the painting of the ruins. There was serenity there and a clear sense of good and wrong. Taking care, avoiding suffering, that was good.

“I think this is it,” she said, wiping her hands on a cloth. “I am going to grab a couple of things and then we can go.”

Back to Grimmauld Place. Back to uncertainty.

ooOoo

“What do we do now?” asked Regulus. The day had passed in a constant state of tension until everyone was too tired to be afraid. Harry had checked the wards again, had accompanied Draco as he took Fenton for a walk, kissed him softly as they reached the grass. He had prepared lunch and Draco and Luna had taken charge of dinner. Dinner that they were now having in Harry’s bedroom because Regulus and Fred were sick of the living room and they had already spent quite a few hours in the library.

“I… I am going to take you somewhere else. Somewhere safe,” Harry said firmly. He hadn’t had much time to think the plan through, but he had been forming it since that morning. “Then I’m going to invite Quinn here. If he is implicated in this— ”

“He is,” said Draco.

“If he is,” Harry repeated because if he was, well, then the Ministry hadn’t noticed and that was _big_. It might be his predecessor, Harry rather liked that idea. “If he is implicated then he will know about you being in the house. He will show his intentions. He will attack. I will fight him. Whatever the result, you will be safe somewhere else and have a definite answer about who is hunting you.”

“What do you mean _whatever the result_?” said Fred in an ugly voice.

“_I_ am not going anywhere. I don’t think I can handle travel. I have a very delicate system.”

“That man hurt Fenton. I want revenge.”

“Harry, no.”

Harry’s plan was really good, he was sure of it, if only they would implement it.

“You said it yourself, Harry,” Fred said, arms crossed over his chest. “If you win, then it doesn’t matter if we stay here, and if you lo— have trouble winning, then all the better that we stayed and we can help. I am a Demon slayer, myself.”

“It’s not like he would stop looking for us after killing you,” Regulus said with a shrug. Harry wondered if he had always spoken so bluntly or if he had picked it up from Fred.

Draco was looking down at his feet with a grim expression. He didn’t like the turn of this conversation. Harry didn’t want to guess if it was the possibility of failure in general, or Harry assuming that he might die. He didn’t want to presume.

“Do you know what I could have right now?” Draco asked no one in particular. “A cornetto.”

Harry took five seconds to understand the words and realise that they meant what he thought they meant.

“A cornetto?” he repeated, slowly.

“Yes, it’s a kind of ice cream in a cone. I love them.”

“You love them.”

Draco nodded. “I even have a tattoo, look.” He put his plate on the floor next to Harry’s bed and rolled up his left sleeve. Harry thought maybe the cornetto was hidden below the armpit or something, but no, it was right there near the morsmordre. Hiding under the steam on Draco’s elbow.

“I thought it was a rose,” Harry said as he looked at the swirls, six and six, intertwined. It was kind of pretty. He had never noticed that the crown of the cornetto was so pretty.

“I used to eat them all the time. Back then,” Draco said. He didn’t specify when that back-then was, but it was easy to guess that it must have been during the height of Voldemort’s of power.

“What— How were you even getting them? They are muggle.”

Draco shrugged. “I walked to the store and got them. There was a small town near the manor and it had a shop. And a bigger town in the other direction.”

Fred was nodding as if that made perfect sense, because he and George used to go to the muggle village near the Burrow. It didn’t account for something, though.

“What about the money?”

“You can exchange galleons for pounds at Gringotts,” Draco said, deliberately serious. He knew, he had to know, how strange his confession was, but he was playing dumb and oblivious.

“_What?_” Harry was getting, he didn’t know what he was getting, just that his chest hurt and his heart clenched at the idea that Draco had been getting muggle money during the war. He was buying _pounds_ when Voldemort had taken the Ministry.

“What were you thinking?” Harry said, his heart beating fast. Was this a punishment for saying he would fight alone? “Draco, they could have killed you just for that!”

Draco shrugged and said nothing and Harry felt a coat of ice surround his heart. In fact, no one said anything, although Fred was a bit slower in understanding. Luna had reached over and grabbed Draco’s hand. Harry wished he could do the same, wished he could move instead of being frozen with terror.

“It feels like it was just last month,” Regulus said with a voice that was like biting into an ice cream and finding liquid chocolate inside. There was such beauty and comfort in Regulus’ voice. Harry kind of hated the fact that no one had mentioned it. That Sirius had never said, “my idiot brother became a Death Eater and had the most beautiful voice in the world,” that Snape never said, “you are mesmerised by my velvety voice but there was someone far greater.”

Regulus went on. “But looking at it with some distance, I might have been able to retrieve the locket and leave the cave alive. With Kreacher.”

Just, what was one supposed to say to that? Fred was looking at Harry with a lost expression, silently begging for help. Neither of them knew what to do, what to say.

Fred scooted over and grabbed Regulus. He grabbed him, like a doll, and pulled him towards his chest. Even sick, Fred still had quite a few pounds on Regulus. He was shorter, though.

“The night you, the night you escaped. From the house,” said Draco with a calm voice. “I took my broom and went to the village and ate three cornettos. Strawberry, Classic and Mint. They had run out of pistachio.”

“Draco, I… I don’t— ”

“Oh, shut up!” cried Draco. “You walked into the forest TO DIE. You will listen to this.”

So it was a punishment. It was about death and risking yourself and being brave and stupid.

“I have never walked into a forest!” cried Fred. He was still clutching a struggling Regulus to his chest as if he feared that someone would try to take him from him. “And I don’t want to hear this suicidal talk.”

“Liar!” yelled everyone, probably Regulus, too, although he couldn’t be heard from the nest of Fred’s arms. Nobody believed that the twins hadn’t explored the Forbidden Forest even though Fred insisted they had limited themselves to the castle.

“What’s the best flavour, Draco?” asked Luna. She was still holding his hand.

“Probably the chocolate one. But I am very fond of the buttermilk lemon and strawberry cheesecake. The pistachio one is very difficult to find.”

Luna nodded, taking the information in. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back straight, hair parted in two and falling over her shoulders. She waited a bit before speaking. Long enough that they could all gather themselves, if not their thoughts. Fred was still hugging Regulus, but at least now Regulus didn’t have his face pressed against Fred’s chest. He was very close, but he could breathe.

“I have never wanted to die,” Luna told them. “Not a day in my life. Not even when my Mum… passed.”

Draco looked at her sadly and pressed her hand. They were all looking at her as if they knew that she was about to say something very important.

“Some people were worried. I was very sad, for a while. Aunt Calpurnia said—she is Papa’s aunt—she said that he should keep a close eye on me and that I shouldn’t be allowed in Mum’s study. Going to the river, too. She said I shouldn’t go even with company because I might do something that I would regret. Professor Flitwick wrote a letter to him. He was concerned that I looked very sad and liked wandering in the forest.”

Nobody said a thing. Luna spoke with her usual calm that seemed a bit out of it. Like when Umbridge brought them to her office and threatened to use the _cruciatus_ curse and Luna looked absolutely bored with the proceedings.

“But I never wanted to die,” she repeated. “I was very sad and I wanted to understand what took my Mum. Sometimes, when the sadness was too much, I just wanted to be away and that’s what I did. That is different from wanting to be dead.”

That made a lot of sense for Harry. He thought it made sense for the others, too. Wanting to be alive was a basic human instinct. Wanting to be away from a bad situation was a basic instinct too. It wasn’t a wish for death, it was wish to be allowed to live.

Regulus coughed faintly and Fred helped him to sit a bit more straight. Harry glanced at the clock. It had been twenty-four hours now. He waited, holding his breath to see if Regulus coughed blood.

He didn’t. He sat back and raised his eyebrows when he noticed that both Harry and Draco were looking at him intently.

Death was an impenetrable mystery. Death was the end all. Death, and the parting between worlds, was what had built the Ministry of Magic. The stone arch and the ragged Veil had always been there, and the Department of Mysteries and the Ministry of Magic had been built around it.

Death was also extremely simple. One little push and you were gone.

Harry had read a lot and thought a lot about Death. He might not be an expert. (The interested party prowling around the house would say that Harry knew nothing, that he didn’t have a true understanding of Death and that was probably right.) Harry didn’t know much more about Death, but he knew a lot about messing with it, about trying to escape it, elude it, dominate it.

Most of the time, when people tried to master Death they ended up dying before their time. Like a curse of reverse action, the thing you feared the most came to you faster.

It worked the other way too. Harry had suspected it ever since he realized Regulus and Fred were having each other’s nightmares. But he couldn’t exactly test it.

They had been attacked. They had fought. They had risked their lives to save Luna. They had stepped between her and the Demon. They were willing to die.

All their symptoms had disappeared. Harry didn’t know when, exactly; if it was at the beginning of the fight, or during, or after. All he knew was that he had come home to the three of them bruised and injured, but there had been no more seizures, no bleeding, no vomiting, no fever. Fred had his hearing back. Regulus was using the left side of his body without trouble.

He didn’t dare say it aloud.

ooOoo

They realised it the next morning when they woke up after a full night of restful sleep, the first they had had since they came back to life. Fred yawned like a lion while Regulus stretched his arms and said, “I feel good.” Then he paused and looked perplexed as he blinked and checked himself.

“I feel good?” Regulus asked, voice like the smell of wood.

“Mmh?” Fred asked, scratching his hair. “Yeah, I slept really well too. Oh!”

Of course at the first sign of celebration Fenton jumped on them, wagging his tail and all of his bottom, as if he were going to fly in the air. He also stepped on Draco, waking him up so he could join the festivities. Draco cursed everyone in the room.

A morning person he was not. Draco seemed to be, like Harry, more used to going to sleep late.

Harry cooked them a special breakfast to celebrate, thinking with a little pang of hurt that it had been far too easy getting used to Kreacher’s absence. Kreacher would have thrown a fit at the idea of them _sitting_ in his kitchen to eat. Harry felt that losing Kreacher should be more important and he should have struggled more, failed more at cooking and keeping the house clean.

Well, on the last matter he had only dusted and cast some charms at the bathroom. It had been days—no, a week, it had been a whole week now since anyone polished the silver and brass, since anyone mopped the floor of the kitchen, cleaned the ash from the fireplaces, ironed his clothes. Harry had done none of that and the world had kept moving and in fact he had repelled two attacks (okay, just one, he wasn’t present for the other).

A week ago Regulus and Fred were dying, having seizures daily and barely able to keep anything down. Two weeks ago they were so sick that Harry was sure they wouldn’t last an hour. Three weeks ago they had been _dead_. Now Harry was making them eggs and bacon and sausages and they looked healthy and Kreacher was dead and someone was trying to kill them.

“I am going to say this again,” Harry said to the room, “I would rather have you somewhere else. Take Aeneas, too.”

“I commend your attitude,” Fred said very seriously. He even puffed out his chest, making Luna laugh. “But no. I want to see the face of the man who wants to kill me.”

“He looks a lot like a bird,” Harry said, almost absentmindedly. “And we don’t know for sure that it’s him. It could be his former boss.” Harry felt like he should add that, should remember that they didn’t have certainties. Draco, however, rolled his eyes and talked about probability and simple explanations. To be fair, Harry didn’t pay much attention because Draco was sitting cross-legged, his hair loose, and had an arm thrown over Fenton who was sitting upright next to Draco. On his arm, only the teapot on his arm was visible.

It wasn’t that Harry was focussing on Draco. It was just that he was there and Harry found himself losing all concentration, like falling into a meditative state. Harry didn’t think; he simply watched as Draco spoke.

They ate, they washed, they got dressed. Everybody noticed that Harry chose his attire carefully. Nothing that spoke overtly of combat, but everything—from the cut of the jacket (allowed for free arm movement) to the fabric (resilient without being constricting)—would allow him to fight and fight well.

“I feel like I should maybe wear something else,” said Fred, looking down at his pyjamas.

Luna looked at him and shrugged. “Neville fought in his pyjamas. At Hogwarts.”

“I will put on socks, then,” he said, and went to do that. Regulus wanted to go to his old room and find what he could wear from there, anything other than the pyjamas he was sick of. He didn’t actually want to go to the room, however; he wanted something from it but he didn’t want to deal with the impact of seeing a place that was so recent and so ancient. So Draco went with him and Fenton followed because they were going to a new and unexplored place.

Harry went down to the library, each step down feeling heavy in his chest. It reminded him of when he went with Ron to open the Chamber of Secrets, knowing full well that it was dangerous and probably a very bad idea but not seeing what else he could do. At least this time he didn’t have Lockhart prancing around.

He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea or if it would work. He thought so, but he wasn’t sure. What he was _sure_ of was that he wasn’t sending Aeneas, though. He wasn’t risking his stupid owl on the ire of a monster. Instead Harry looked around the drawers in the library desk until he got some official Ministry paper and envelopes. It didn’t have enough magical strength to go by itself from Grimmauld Place, but if Harry dropped the letter by the entrance to the Ministry then the envelope should find Quinn by itself, flying on the mail currents that were at work in the Ministry.

This letter was much easier to write than the one he had sent to Draco. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t know if Draco had ended up reading it. He thought not, which was a pity because Harry had done a very good job writing it. Letters were much better than talking.

_Mister Harry James Potter_, wrote Harry,_ humbly requests Mister Aetius Quinn to kindly visit him at number 12 Grimmauld Place, London, in order to discuss a matter that concerns him regarding the previous Head of the Department of Mysteries._

Harry thought that the quill had moved slower over the parchment when he wrote the name. He had no trouble when he wrote the address on the envelope. _Aetius Quinn, Department of Mysteries_.

Fred came into the library to show Harry his socks, nicely thick and woolly. They might have belonged to Sirius; they had a sun and moon on the sides. Fred sat on the desk next to Harry. “Regulus and Draco are having a moment,” he said. “Luna is going up to see how they are doing. Is that the letter?”

Harry showed it to him.

“I’m worried about Aeneas and Fenton and that weird snake,” Harry confessed. He wanted to win. He was going at this thinking that he would win because entering a fight thinking that you would lose ensured your defeat. You had to have confidence, but sometimes that confidence was better grounded when you had a plan for things going awry.

Fred looked at him. His eyes were blue, just blue. No sky or sea or limpid pond or bright jewel. If anything about Fred’s face was remarkable, it was the extremely friendly expression. He might be a prankster and a teacher’s nightmare, but Fred (and George) had the face of someone you could count on.

Or maybe it was just Harry, but the twins had always been really good. Really nice older brothers even when they teased Harry and Ron.

“You have your wand, don’t you?” asked Harry casually and looked down at Fred’s hand. He had the wand with him, one of the long ones that might or might not be red. “Look, Fred, when that Demon came, you were the last one standing, the one less affected…” Fred was nodding as Harry spoke, still that friendly and easy expression on his face. Harry felt just a little twinge of something in his chest that was easy to ignore. His arms were crossed as if that would kelp keep the twinge away from the surface. “You are _strong_ and I’m going to need that strength.”

“Whatever you need, Harry.” Just like Ron would say, only Fred also put a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“If you insist on staying here I won’t refuse you,” Harry said, opening his arms. He moved around so he could lean against the desk side by side with Fred. “But if, and only if; if things get real bad, if you see me get knocked down or something, if he gets too close… I want you to grab the dog and Aeneas and even the snake and go. You can come back right away and join the fight,” Harry said quickly, before Fred could argue. “But please, take them somewhere safe, away from here.”

“Okay, yes. I can do that, Harry. Don’t worry. It won’t be necessary in any case.”

“I know,” Harry smiled. “But it would make me feel better, if you promised. Take a weight off my mind, let me focus.”

Fred smiled, nice and easy and friendly, and promised. Harry only felt a bit bad for the manipulation. Fred had only been at the Battle of Hogwarts and whatever little skirmishes he had run into that year of the war. He didn’t know, like Harry, that people fell back on very basic ideas when under stress. He didn’t know that if things got bad enough that he had to grab the pets and flee, he wouldn’t be able to think of any isolated place to apparate to. He would go right to the Burrow or the joke shop, and the same would happen if he used the floo.

He wouldn’t make it back to Grimmauld Place. If things really got that bad, Fred and the animals would be out. Harry could make sure of that.

Now if only Harry could think of three other, similar, tricks.

Harry wasn’t quite Slytherin but he tried. Regulus shouldn’t have said that Quinn, or whoever it was, would still kill them after killing Harry. Now Harry was going to make _sure_ that once Quinn revealed his true intentions he wouldn’t get out of the house alive, even if that meant bringing the whole building down on their heads.

Didn’t someone else do something like this, once? He remembered some story from primary school. Something religious, but he couldn’t recall the details. The Dursleys didn’t bring him to church, which Harry was actually grateful for because he got a couple of hours all to himself on Sundays and he could wash with hot water.

Shannon? He didn’t think that there was any religious hero called that. He remembered being shocked that someone might want to kill people so badly that they would be willing to die with them. How innocent of him.

He kept mulling over the name while he apparated next to the Ministry to drop the letter, but he had forgotten about it by the time he got back to the house less than a a minute later.

ooOoo

The day passed slowly. Harry didn’t know when to expect Quinn, if he would come right away or after working hours or late at night. They waited in the ramshackle living room drinking tea and eating toast. At some point Harry looked up and went to take down the painting. It had already survived one fight unscathed and that was plenty. Regulus asked to have his framed _Ruff!_ put in a safe place, too, which gave Harry a nice opportunity to ask Regulus to contact Aberforth Dumbledore when Harry gave him a signal. He talked to Luna a while later, while they waited for a new pot to brew, and asked her to raise the alarm at Hogwarts when Harry gave his signal.

Draco was the last and the most suspicious, but Harry told him that he might have failed to file some dangerous materials in the Auror department, something so dangerous that he feared that it would be misplaced or misused in the Ministry so Harry had hidden it somewhere else. It was a very good lie, very likely. In fact it wasn’t exactly a lie because Harry had once found a necklace that nullified a person’s will, a necklace that was like _imperius _and amortentia. Harry had broken the gems with a rock before tearing it in pieces and dropping it down a well. The only lie was that Harry would store it somewhere rather than destroy it.

Draco’s smile wavered and he sealed his promise with a kiss that Harry didn’t deserve. It was the third kiss they had shared and it tasted like fear and ashes. But he would go when Harry asked him to and that was what mattered, getting him out of the house.

They did the crossword. It took them fifteen minutes to find out that a bird of the dessert was a cinnamologus and ten more to realise that Luna had known the answer the whole time and had said nothing because she was _evil_, pure and plain _evil_. (Her laughter was delightful, though.) _Ruff!_ was about the dog waiting excitedly for a door-to-door seller so he could chase him, but the seller said it wasn’t even in the top ten bad things that had happened to him. Apparently Ruff’s neighbour liked to wander around the house naked.

It was mundane and simple, perfectly ordinary while they waited for Death to come, for fear and violence and murder.

At precisely five minutes after five the doorbell rang. The destruction of the original door had damaged the bell so rather than a hollow and eerie sound they got something like a metal hammer banging on an old, rusted teapot.

Harry waited until everyone was in the library, the room farthest from the street, before opening the door.

Aetius Quinn was there. Tall, but not remarkably tall. Thin, but more slender than skinny. The cut of his grey robes was elegant and simple, ending just above the knee and showing a pair of trousers of the same colour. His shoes were leather and expensive. The only note of colour was the silk yellow cravat tied around his neck with a narrow knot. He wore perfume, and Harry was surprised to see that it was the first time he had noticed it. Something deep and fragrant that made Harry think of blackberries and nettles. 

“Mister Potter,” Quinn greeted him with a slight bow of his head. His voice betrayed nothing.

“Mister Quinn,” Harry greeted back, looking carefully at him as he said his name. “Won’t you come inside?” he said, which wasn’t an invitation exactly. It worked like an invitation, but it wasn’t. Something passed over Quinn’s face, something that hadn’t been there when Harry said his name.

He stepped inside, his face calm and blank but his eyes flashing with something as he crossed the threshold.

“I see you are… renovating.” Spoken again with no emotion and no intonation. It made Harry think of Snape and how he could make even the most common and vulgar words threatening. 

“Yes,” Harry said simply. “I tried to get a stain out of the ceiling and ended up removing the whole thing.”

The door closed. Quinn’s eyes didn’t shine in the dark of the foyer. He didn’t become as big as the darkness there. Still, out of the corner of his eye, that was the impression Harry got.

“Your house elf is wanting in keeping the house clean,” Quinn said and pushed some wood chips with the point of his leather shoe.

Harry had suffered the Dursleys, Dudley (he merited his own category), Draco Malfoy and other Hogwarts students, the whole machinery of the Ministry of Magic (twice), Rita Skeeter, those two guys at the Academy who had it in for Harry, many politicians and Ron in a bad mood. Stick and stones might break his bones if used with enough strength, but words didn’t get a flinch out of Harry. 

He smiled and blinked slowly at Quinn, like cats do when they want to show they are not afraid of you. “He passed recently,” he said, perfectly calm, and internally swore that just for that Quinn was going to burn.

Harry showed Quinn into the living room and he saw him scan the place, his penetrating eyes looking for the people that weren’t there. He also took a deep breath, which in any other person would go unnoticed but it made Harry think that Quinn might have some other abilities.

“Were you expecting something else?” Harry asked innocently. Quinn pursed his lips. 

“Enough pleasantries, Mister Potter. You have called me here, rather secretly I must say, to discuss something.”

“Yes,” Harry said speaking with admirable command of himself. “I was wondering if you could tell me the name of your predecessor. And the date when he left the department.”

The problem, if it could be called that, was that in an effort to be humble and fair, (especially fair), Harry had insisted a lot on how he had had quite a bit of luck defeating Voldemort. He had insisted so much, in fact, that now it was all people got: Harry Potter, the Lucky Boy Who Lived. Nobody thought of the actual talent and quite a lot of hard work that went along that luck. Nobody thought that if Harry was able to cast a fully corporeal _patronus_ two months shy of fourteen, luck had little to do with it and it was thanks to the months of private tutoring with Lupin.

Harry didn’t mind it much. Overall, he found that it was good when people underestimated him. Ron was the same. He had gone from craving recognition to bemoaning the fact that people targeted him more than Harry now.

Evidently Aetius Quinn was more sensitive to the effect of words than Harry was. He also thought Harry was weak, despite all evidence to the contrary. He had believed Harry’s words when no one should take them seriously.

Quinn’s arm snapped up, hand like a talon, and closed around Harry’s neck. He was making an effort not to snarl, to keep the appearance of composure, but his pupils had narrowed to pinpoints at the mention of his predecessor.

Harry cast non-verbally, repelling Quinn and sending him a dozen steps back until his legs painfully hit the frame of an armchair. Quinn had scratched Harry on the neck but it was very shallow. It barely stung.

There was a red hex. There was a counter-curse. The duel had begun.

Quinn was an elegant and old-fashioned duellist. He was effective and had stripped his style of any useless flourish. He moved his wand with precise, sharp movements while keeping excellent posture. Really commendable. It was like something out of a textbook.

There was an elegance to Harry’s duelling, too, but above all Harry was effective and practical in a way that seemed brutal and ruthless. If Quinn had stripped his style of any flourish, Harry had gone further and stripped himself of any style. He fought in a total and final way. Yes, that was it. Harry didn’t duel, he fought.

Which was very good because few people would be able to best Aetius Quinn in a duel.

One wave with his left hand and the walls of the living room had vanished, the room opening to a dark forest full of thorns. Harry supposed he ought to find the image terrifying and it certainly was disquieting, but it wasn’t much worse than the Forbidden Forest.

Quinn cast again, sending something sharp and strong towards Harry. Harry deflected and cast a standard paralysing spell, like any wizard in law enforcement would. Harry had little hope of the spell working but he wanted to see how Quinn reacted.

Quinn sidestepped the spell and turned slightly to see where it had hit. He tilted his head and grinned at Harry, looking like a predator about to jump on his prey. He looked calm and powerful and as dangerous as a tiger, all teeth and strength.

But he had turned to look. This was a man who cared about the display more than anything else. Harry supposed it made sense given that the living room of his house currently seemed to be in the middle of a dark forest with threatening eyes shining between the branches. Quinn was about images and words.

Harry lowered his stance and deflected Quinn’s quick spells. One, two, three, sky blue and shaped like a screw. They seemed like some sort of nerve-pain curse. Quinn had moved forward while he cast the spells and again, with his left hand, waved and seized some invisible point in the air. From the surrounding forest a flock of black birds emerged screaming like a murder, their talons sharp and tearing.

Harry tried to remember if the fake Luna had used her right or left arm when she gave him an electric shock. It might be a preference and it might be that the wandless magic only came with the left hand.

Quinn was very close again so Harry ducked and cast a small _bombarda_ that snapped Quinn’s head back with the force of a punch. This time there was an angry roar and Quinn moved his wand like a lash. The curse was a personal favourite of Bellatrix Lestrange and very painful. Harry’s quick _protego_ wasn’t enough to repel it. He felt as if he had been hit with a belt across his face and chest.

He took two steps back. The birds were circling around them, screaming. Harry could hear hounds howling in the distance. The branches of the trees were creeping into the room like malevolent hands. Quinn tried the _flagello_ spell again. Harry evaded it entirely and casted _stupefy_, which, like the last time, did nothing.

Harry had known he was fighting a powerful wizard with unique magic, but he was starting to think that Quinn might not be entirely human.

The birds were flying faster past Harry, narrowing the circle. He was beginning to feel the flap of their wings against his cheeks and their screams drowned out everything else. Flaps of wings, bodies cutting the air and shrieks that spoke of a violent death. The birds might not be real. Harry thought they weren’t real or Quinn would have had them take his eyes out already. But they were still a hindrance, Harry couldn’t see or hear. He ducked and stopped the next curse simply because he guessed where Quinn was out of instinct. He did the same with the next one, although it was much closer and he almost lost his balance. He didn’t know if he would be able to pull it off a third time, casting and moving deaf and blind simply because his instinct told him to.

A silver rabbit hopped out of the forest. Wait, no; it was very big for a rabbit and its ears were too long. A hare, then, followed closely by a very big silver cat that seemed to have paws two sizes too big. Harry wasn’t sure but he thought that its ears ended in tuffs, like a lynx, but this really wasn’t the time to identify animals with precision. The hare hopped around in a big circle, jumping at the birds that immediately began to fly higher.

Harry got just one brief glimpse of the lynx’s face and felt his breath catch in his throat when nothing so far had made him gasp. It was beautiful and terrible and looked less as a cat and more like a very wise and old hunter. Its eyes were pure white light. It was just a moment, though, before the lynx jumped at Quinn and Harry had his chance. Despite the changed appearance of the room Harry hadn’t lost track of where he was. He turned around and cast at the trees, knowing that there ought to be a wall there and a space with no furniture. A space that Harry could open.

There was the familiar and reassuring sound of brick and wood breaking, a cloud of dust, a few splinters of plaster and a beautiful opening to the corridor hanging right in the middle of the dark forest. Harry jumped through it and the screech of the birds stopped. He could only hear Fenton barking agitatedly and the frantic questions of the others. A mere glance was enough to see all four of them gathered around the living room door, wands held high.

“Scoot!” Harry said, accompanied by a gesture of his head. He turned around, looking back at the hole in the wall. He could still see part of the forest even as the walls of the living room seemed to be growing back. He didn’t know if what he was seeing was real, if they had been there, or if it was all an illusion, or if it was a real illusion like Dumbledore would say. The _patronuses_ seemed to have some effect on it which was a very nice and hitherto unknown phenomenon.

All this took just one second. Harry told them to move away from the door, turned around and aimed his wand at the hole in the wall. Flames erupted from his wand. Not like the cute little spell Harry had taught them, that was just a flame, singular. These were flames, plural, flames like an arson, flames like a picture of a dragon in a medieval book, big and orange and curly, reaching like tendrils or tongues.

Fire erupted from the living room door. Fire that had swallowed everything in the room. Harry was very glad of his decision to put the painting somewhere safe because the fire would burn everything in there but hopefully—if Harry had done it well—not the whole house. This was a magical fire, restricted to the room.

Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw Draco, pale and leaning against the wall with a dark expression. He was probably thinking of the friend he had lost in a similar fire. Luna was next to him, hunched under Regulus who was covering her with his slight frame. Fred was the closest to the door, of course, Harry had expected nothing else. He was looking to the door rather than away.

“Tell Fred we close it in three,” said Harry. He heard Draco repeat the order to Luna. He counted to five, to give them time to reach Regulus and Fred and then raised his voice. “One! Two! THREE!”

The flames stopped and Harry closed the hole in the wall with stone. Most charm barriers tended to create stone rather than brick and mortar. Fred did the same on the other end, closing the door and putting a layer of stone over it.

The wall was hot to the touch when Harry leaned against it. He was sweating and he was beginning to feel cold. He put a hand on Draco’s arm, searching his eyes, almost as clear and light as the lynx’s. “You all right?” he said, barely huffing for breath. He always had good control of his respiration. “Take a step back, come on. Behind me. To the library. Luna, you too. Well done with the patronuses.”

They moved, panting and hesitant, Harry herding them to the back of the house. Fred was still near the door although he had turned around and was looking at Harry, a tentative smile on his face because Fred’s natural state was a smile.

|

\ /

— B O O M —

/ \

|

H— Harry was going to have a heart attack. Harry was going to drop dead and it would be out of fright and despair. Harry _felt_ his heart jump to his mouth. It was just an expression but he _felt_ it, tasted it on his tongue, noticed its absence in his chest.

There explosion was like the one that had broken the stone wall in Hogwarts. Fred had been smiling then, too, because it was his natural state, and had carried that smile to his death.

Harry’s eyes were filling with tears and he couldn’t utter a word. He saw Quinn standing in the middle of the debris, wood and brick and stone and mortar dust in the air. His clothes weren’t even singed and he should have died. He should have died, not Fred. There had been flames all over the room. He should have died there.

Harry was vaguely aware that his wand was up and that he had cast something, his instincts taking over. There had been at least two white lights and one green, so there were other spells at play. The others had good reflexes if nothing else.

He cast again, lips mouthing the words even if he couldn’t make a sound. A viper bite hex. The world was reeling and Harry didn’t know if it was another illusion or not. The viper bite did nothing. Quinn’s smile was thick old honey. His eyes were probably yellow.

“Merlin’s balls! That was close.”

Fred. Fred! That was Fred. Fred scrambling on the floor, running to them almost on his hands and feet. Fred alive. Fred alive, Fred. Harry’s heart began to beat again. The world came back into focus.

“_Confrigo!_” he cried. The blast made a satisfying snapping sound. Behind him Luna was casting a shielding charm over Fred, Regulus was screaming a hex. Fenton was barking and growling like a lion and Draco might be pulling him away, towards the library. Harry hoped so.

Quinn sent a wind of ice that hurt even though it didn’t really do any harm. Their faces were flushed from the residual heat in the living room so the cold was almost a relief before they began to feel the sting. Harry could see his breath hanging white in the air.

“Give in now and I will be merciful,” Quinn said. Perhaps he meant it. Leave them alive but without memories. His voice was like someone trying to mimic a musical instrument.

Harry’s answer came in the form of a blast. Fire didn’t work, poison didn’t work, stunning spells didn’t work and neither did imprisoning spells. So far only physical hits seemed to push Quinn back and cause some harm. Maybe if Harry could get close he could bash Quinn’s head with the fire poker.

Someone, either Regulus or Draco, casted a blasting curse that smelled strongly of pure alcohol and was charged with anger. The air trembled around it as it travelled down the corridor and went past Quinn’s head.

The cold charm was still in effect. Ice was forming on the wall next to Harry. The tips of his fingers were cold. He waved his wand quickly to dispel it, his eyes still on Quinn who was slowly making his way out of the debris and deflecting or absorbing their spells with terrifying ease.

“I need another animal in five,” said Harry. He thought they would understand, given he had said “another.”

“I can’t,” mumbled Regulus, casting yet another hex. It had been a while since Harry last saw anything like that. Regulus seemed to prefer poisonous or weakening hexes over ones that caused direct damage. He wished he could have a practice duel with Regulus some day.

“I, I,” Fred was panting. The tip of his wand was only producing small puffs of silver, like snowfall.

Harry conjured a few big stones and sent them down at Quinn. Quinn didn’t retreat but at least he had to stop to deflect them. The ice that had formed on the walls around them was melting. The walls and the floor were wet, but not slippery.

Harry couldn’t remember Fred or George’s _patronus_. The hare had been Luna’s, of course. He hadn’t wanted to assume about the lynx but Draco was now coming to his left side and kneeling, touching the back of Harry’s leg to let him know he was there.

There was this rumour that Death Eaters couldn’t cast corporeal patronuses. Harry knew it to be untrue. Some were able to cast non-corporeal ones which, until Harry started giving classes at the DA, was pretty much the norm for everyone. Some weren’t able to cast anything at all, which was the case of the Lestrange brothers. Some were able to get fully corporeal ones despite being some of the most horrible people Harry had known. Umbridge was one. Bellatrix was another. Rosier too.

The memory didn’t have to be good, just happy.

Harry counted down with the fingers of his left hand so Draco could see. They cast at the same time. The lynx appeared mid-jump and ran towards Quinn without hesitation, moving with the beautiful fluidity of all felines. Its tail was ridiculously short just as its feet were too big. Imperfect and all the more beautiful for it. They were only flaws if you had a jaguar or a tiger in mind.

The lynx leaped over Quinn just as Harry’s spell, a simple blast and burn that worked like a bullet or an arrow, hit him in the chest in approximately the same place where Harry had his second scar.

Quinn jerked back. He hadn’t seen Harry’s tiny spell, too taken by the icy gaze of the lynx. He snarled in anger and surprise and quickly told them that they would beg for the mercy of death while they suffered in a living nightmare. Harry only half-paid attention, his eyes fixed on that spot on Quinn’s chest.

He didn’t know how long the _patronus_ would hold. Without a clear target it might vanish soon but maybe not. Harry thought that the magical community didn’t know as much about patronuses as they thought. Just five minutes ago Harry had discovered a fun and interesting application that he was implementing right away because Harry was a quick study.

Blood erupted from the wound like a blooming carnation. Though the translucent silver body of the lynx, Harry saw Quinn twitch and the wound stopped bleeding. He saw the wound close. He watched as the fabric of the robe was repaired, the blood stain disappearing as if it had never been there.

Harry didn’t know what Quinn wanted with Regulus and Fred but he knew it was something to do with their return to life. This was a man who had already found something, a man who was more than a body, a man who had conquered Death.

Harry was still going to kill that man.

The others were casting any and all spells that occurred to them with no effect. Quinn wasn’t even bothering to deflect most of the spells now, marching towards them in a way that was inescapable and inevitable. He was exactly seven and a half steps away from Regulus and Fred.

“This is my signal,” said Harry. “This is it. Move.”

They moved, thankfully, they moved and began to get away, to walk away from Harry and Quinn. But it wasn’t enough.

“You will SUFFER,” Quinn said, hollow metal in his voice. He was nine and a half steps from Fred. Ten and a half from Regulus. Eight steps from Harry.

Quinn raised his left hand

And the walls disappeared, the ceiling, the floor. For a few seconds Harry was inside a ring of fire, the flames roaring around him, and then a giant skull was falling towards him, jaws open to devour him. The skull engulfed Harry and then he was standing in a white, icy desert before darkness rose around him and Harry was falling down a deep, deep, pit until he suddenly found himself in a deep dungeon. From between the thick iron bars of the cell door Harry could see row after row of cells, like a giant beehive. It smelled of blood and piss and fear. He had a curious feeling of certainty that told him that he was very far away, nowhere near England anymore, and that he had been there a long time.

It was a dark, dry place, the only light the yellow and red shadows of distant torches. There was a table with straps next to Harry and he thought he had been tied to it and that he had just escaped. Torture tools hung from a nearby wall, some of them still wet with blood.

He couldn’t see the others. Funny how he felt that it had been years since he’d seen any of them, how Harry could almost remember the long trip here in chains, but he still had that urgency to know where Draco was, where was Luna, Regulus, Fred. He could hear the drag of metal and stone, the rustling of chains, sobs.

Did he have a wand? Looking down at his right hand, Harry saw nothing. He still kept his hand closed in a tight fist. He lifted his left hand and touched the torture instruments on the wall. They felt real, cold and hard with a bit of rust near the handle. He pressed his fingers against the blade of one of them until he felt the skin break open and he began to bleed.

He touched the wound with the tip of his fingers. It stung, it hurt. He licked his finger and the blood on his lips was real.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Chains, iron and steel over stone, crying, and also a cold dry feeling over his face. The tips of his ears were cold. The tips of his hair were curling with sweat.

He lifted his right hand, fist closed around nothing. Harry still had his eyes closed so he couldn’t see that he didn’t have a wand there when he cast a fire spell.

He opened his eyes. The cell was the same. He could hear the scurrying of rats fleeing from the steps of someone who was coming closer. Someone who was coming to Harry’s cell.

But, but— Harry hadn’t seen anything but he had felt heat on the side of his hand. He might have imagined it, he might have wished to feel that heat. But.

His living room had turned into a forest before, hadn’t it? And it was recently not years and years ago despite what Harry’s memories said. It was five minutes ago. He was not fifteen years older.

The steps were almost right there. There was a scream of pain.

_Patronuses_ protected from illusions. He had discovered that. Cast _expectro patronum_ and get out of there. Close his eyes so he wouldn’t see that there wasn’t a wand and cast.

“Harry!”

There were two figures standing by the door to the cell. One was tall and dark and hooded, very much like a Death Eater. The other was on her knees and seemed to have been dragged like that for a while. There was blood on her knees, her legs. The Death Eater was holding her upright by her hair.

Red.

“Harry!”

Her face was bruised, her lip slit open. She was wearing a pale blue dress, dirty and torn in many places. She called with the deepest accent of sorrow in her voice.

“Please!” she said, and Harry had to close his eyes and keep the tears there. She called him again. _Harry! Harry!_ Every bad thing Harry had ever witnessed—every bad thing that ever happened to him—was in her voice as she called his name.

When he opened his eyes the Death Eater had pulled her head back, exposing her white neck. One of the shoulder straps of her dress was broken. There was a knife, bright and sharp, in the Death Eater’s hand.

“Kneel.” The order came with the voice of a dragon and a skull, deep and hollow and dark. “Beg.”

The knife drew a thin line of scarlet on the white neck. She cried in pain and choked as she repeated Harry’s name.

Harry had spent his third year at Hogwarts obsessing over that voice. Craving to hear it even though it was painful, like a burn, like a cut. He had learned to cast a _patronus_ despite that voice. The voice of his mother. The only memory he had of that voice.

And this? This wasn’t it. For one, Harry was pretty sure that his mother wouldn’t beg and she certainly wouldn’t distract him with her cries. He suspected that she would be clawing Quinn’s eyes out, actually, because Lily Evans had no time for illusions and mirages. As good as the replica was on the surface, it was very obviously a replica. Maybe Harry was inured to horror and nightmares by now, or maybe Quinn’s illusion truly was that disappointing. He thought that seeing Quinn advancing through the corridor, his wounds healing in seconds, was scarier than this.

Harry closed his eyes and thought of how proud his mother would be that he was still surviving. He thought about the time Molly had given him her brother’s watch, marked him as one of her own.

He opened his eyes to the corridor of the house, a huge silver deer standing by his side. A glance over his shoulder showed him the rugged stone of the cell behind him, the blood stains on the floor, but before him was the real thing.

He couldn’t see where Regulus and Fred were. Luna was to his right, slumped on the floor, lips white and trembling. And Draco, Draco was four or five steps further from her, the tips of his toes barely touching the floor. His eyes were open and alert and terrified as Quinn slowly choked the life out of him. His wand had slipped from his hand and was on the floor, right by the feet that couldn’t reach the ground.

There was a joyful grin on Quinn’s face. He was looking at Draco’s face and nothing else, memorising his expression as Draco died.

Maybe he had always planned to do this, kill them slowly one by one while the rest drowned in living nightmares, or maybe Draco’s first reaction when finding himself in a nightmare had been casting _expect patronum_, not because it worked against illusions, as Harry had observed, but because a patronus was comforting. That seemed like Draco. He had a cornetto tattooed near his elbow. He liked comfort.

Harry pushed the deer over with his hip, sending it closer to Luna. Then he pointed at Quinn and cast. Draco didn’t have much time.

“_Sectumsempra_.”

Quinn screamed like iron does before turning to steel, he screamed as if the sound itself, the mere fact that he was screaming were damaging to him. He turned and bent over himself because, no matter his ability to heal all wounds and damage, he had felt it. He was in pain. Draco was on the floor, gasping, and looking immensely relieved and scared. There was an open cut high on Draco’s chest because the curse was a bit loose on who exactly the target was. Draco’s right hand was searching for his wand even while he was still trying to figure out what had happened and why was he in pain. Harry could kiss him just for that, for immediately reaching for his wand.

Quinn raised his head and looked at Harry once again with the expression of a hunter, a predator, eyes piercing and teeth bared. Already the deep wounds were closing.

“You ar— ”

Harry didn’t leave him any time to say what he was, to threat or attack or heal. He cast again, brutal and powerful like few wizards ever were. No magic flames or complex curses to turn your head into a pumpkin or reverse your knees; just a cut.

Quinn’s severed arm fell to the floor. The left one, since he seemed to favour that one to cast illusions. See if he healed from that.

Harry heard Luna gasp. He heard that right before Quinn screamed. The cut had been so quick and clean that Quinn didn’t registered it until he saw his arm hit the floor. _Then_ he screamed. Harry thought that it was more rage, and perhaps fear, than actual pain.

Draco was climbing to his feet, his back resting on the wall as if he still didn’t feel strong enough to stand. He slid a foot forward and kicked the arm away from Quinn because Draco was a brilliant asshole.

Quinn repelled Harry’s next attack and countered with one of his own, a cloud of fire that Harry only got to deflect upwards at the last second. It hit Harry on his side but didn’t harm him badly. Harry’s next hit went for the knees that Quinn had left unprotected.

“What do we do?” screamed Fred, followed by another wordless scream as he was swept off his feet and dragged towards Quinn by a thick iron chain. Even now, wounded and in pain, Aetius Quinn didn’t lose sight of his objective.

“No! No!” came the voices of Regulus and Luna. Another chain had appeared around Regulus’ chest and was pulling him while Luna tried to stop him. He was clinging to Luna, feet digging in the floorboards and doing all he could to stop the pull of the chain. Regulus’ eyes were wide with fear. It seemed like he had just exited the nightmare and he was unsure of what he was seeing.

How terrible it was. Harry was only now understanding the horror of Quinn’s powers. How he could bring to life such fear, such hellish images. How any other person who had ever defied him—how anyone who simply came across him, naïvely and unknowingly becoming a hurdle for Quinn—must have suffered.

Was this what happened to Rebecca’s first husband? Did he try to take Quinn’s seat and find himself in a haunted forest instead, running away from wolves? And her? Rebecca, the woman who was never quite satisfied with the disappearance of her first husband and had decided to investigate. Quinn had taken her wand and her life, but had he taken more? Her sanity, perhaps?

Quinn had taken two steps back. He was retreating, hoping to keep Harry at bay long enough to reach the door with the two men dangling from their chains. It wouldn’t be a victory, not with Harry alive and knowing the truth, but it would be a win. There was blood on his teeth as he cast a curse that would take Harry’s eyes out.

“Nooo!” screamed Luna. Regulus had suddenly released her, realising that he was only dragging her with him. The sudden loss of weight meant that Regulus was dragged faster. Draco was slashing at the chain that had taken Fred, making good progress until a third chain appeared and hit him in the face before closing around Fred’s neck and chest. Draco staggered, a hand going instinctively to his already bruising face.

Harry cast _sectumsempra_ again, which Quinn couldn’t avoid, not completely. Four slashes appeared on his chest, arms, thigh, and he screamed in pain but he kept going. He kept walking backwards, taking his prizes with him and sending fire and curses to keep them all back.

Harry knew he would probably have to use _avada kedavra_ and he was surprisingly okay with it. He hadn’t used it with Voldemort but he would use it now if that was what it took. It was a horrible curse—unforgivable—but the effect was pretty similar to chopping someone’s head off. It was death in either case and if Harry had made up his mind about killing Quinn, then the method shouldn’t matter too much.

He didn’t want to kill him. He didn’t. But Quinn was smiling savagely as the heel of his beautiful leather shoes touched a piece of a wood. He was back where he had blown the living room door open, mere steps away from the main door. Another chain surged to grab Regulus tighter while yet another swiped in front of him, hitting Draco across the ribs. Luna was quicker and she ducked in time, but Harry saw she had something green and dark oozing from her neck. She had been hit by a hex.

She was screaming, furious, unlike anything Harry had ever seen. Regulus and Fred were yelling, too, and Draco, and Harry could still hear Fenton barking madly and yet Quinn looked unaffected by all of it. He had his prizes and he was getting away despite his wounds.

Harry took a big breath. The corridor was narrow but that wasn’t an advantage with so many people there moving and swaying. He pointed his wand at the ceiling even as Quinn got to the area where the ceiling was missing. That didn’t matter; just that Harry got the angle right.

“_Pilum magnum_,” Harry said, voice sounding calm and cool and enunciating perfectly despite the turmoil in his chest.

It was definitely big, at least two metres long, taller than Minister Kingsley himself or Bill or Percy. The shaft was made of dark wood and the head was a bright shiny metal that soon was covered in vivid red. The lance fell on Quinn, entering high on his chest and emerging through his mid back, the head of the lance embedding itself deep on the floor.

Quinn wasn’t going anywhere. He also wasn’t healing around the lance that skewered him.

There was blood on Quinn’s lips and he coughed some more. He still raised his arm and cast a curse that Harry deflected easily while striding towards Quinn. Something with a whirlpool shape and black smoke so Harry thought it was the kind that burned you from the inside or melted your organs. Painful and nasty and fallen out of use a hundred and fifty years ago. The next one was green and weak and more familiar. It couldn’t be deflected, at least usually it couldn’t, but Harry had no trouble stepping aside. Funny that Quinn would be the first to use it.

Luna had reached Regulus. She had tried to cut the chains with a couple of spells and when that didn’t work she had conjured an axe and began to hack at them with desperate sobs. Draco was melting the links, trying to get Fred away quickly.

And Harry, Harry conjured a wooden stake in his hand, oak tree with a blackened point hardened in fire. He didn’t walk as much as glided to Quinn. He drove the stake into Quinn’s chest, right into his heart. _Avada kedavra_ might not have worked with him, after all. This was how you killed a monster.

“You think that’s enough?” Quinn grunted. He was pale and his clothes were stained with blood but the wounds from the second _sectumsempra_ had healed now and the wound on his severed arm was down to a small trickle of blood. “I am Master of Death. Master of Illusion. I am King of— ”

“Oh, just die already,” Draco said tiredly. Fred chortled a laugh that was like the essence of spring.

Harry drove the stake deeper. He hoped to be done quickly but he knew that Quinn deserved a slow and painful death. For the cruelty. For the nightmares. He put all the strength of his back into his arm. Harry had a strong back and very nice arms.

“Listen to me, boy.” Quinn spoke with a hoarse voice, as if his throat were very dry. “This is my curse to you.”

Harry didn’t learn what Quinn’s curse to him was. He only got about two more words out before his teeth fell out. Then his skin dried up. The flesh of his bones began to wane. Even the blood had stopped flowing from his wounds. He looked at Harry, eyes full of hate, as his hair turned white and fell from his head, the cloth of his robe unravelled, the threads becoming coarse and dull. For a second Harry got a glimpse of Quinn’s bare body, but the body was thinning quickly until it was nothing more than taut dry skin over a skeleton and then not even that, just dust and blood as thick as tar and a malevolent presence.

The dust scattered in a dun-coloured cloud, thick blood and bile splattered over everything, and the malevolent presence vanished. Harry still had the wooden stake in his hand.

Aetius Quinn was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenton the dog isn’t named after Tom Fenton the actor but after Fenton the dog in Richmond Park. 
> 
> Also, this is an excellent place to take a break, drink some water. No, really, I know what comes next. Rest now.


	4. A slow resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, rest a bit before starting this chapter.

ooOoo

PART FOUR

A slow resolution

ooOoo

Some will say that Death is about balance, that it requires one life for another. It might have been true at some point but not anymore.

It seemed that Death in this case had accepted a two for one, Quinn’s life for Regulus’ and Fred’s, but it wasn’t that simple. For starters Regulus and Fred had forty years of life between the two of them while Aetius Quinn had something in the vicinity of two hundred and forty-three. Regulus and Fred had stopped fighting Death, they had accepted that they might die again, soon, and that counted, it counted a lot for the bargain. Even so, that wasn’t enough. Death was patient, knowing that eventually all things went its way, but Death was also less accommodating than before. It was demanding and greedy. Nowadays Death didn’t play chess games and it had something of a processing fee. The payment of a life wasn’t enough. There had to be a sacrifice.

Maybe it had always been that way and people hadn’t noticed because they were already used to paying up.

For now, however, they occupied themselves with the small things. They finished removing the chains; Fenton was let out of the library so he could bark at the gross black oily thing that covered the floor, walls and even part of the ceiling; they tended to their injuries. Harry’s burn was worse than what he initially thought, but it was easy to fix. Draco complained about his gash, saying that it was the second time Harry had done this, but as soon as it was closed he went to make tea, forgetting entirely about the rather nasty bruise on his face where the chain had hit him.

Luna had the beginning of a poisoning curse which she had stagnated with the same spell used to delay a birth. It was actually a recommended reaction by battle mediwizards but Harry hadn’t expected her to know it or think to use it herself.

They had tea. Draco remembered his bruised ribs and began to complain. Fred had a cut on his hand he didn’t know how he had gotten.

It was well. They were well.

The house was… pretty well, too. Some of the furniture in the living room had survived, which is to say that the charred frames of some chairs were still standing.

“I know how to clean this,” Fred said. For the first time he actually sounded like himself, like he was before his death and the war. He sounded like the happy kid who gave Harry a map and his freedom, the kid who swore they would repay Harry his generosity when he gave them the money to start their joke shop. The kid who made fun of Harry being the Heir of Slytherin.

“The hole in the wall, too,” Fred said, swallowing a biscuit and pointing. “Both of them. I can even make them look aged like before. George and I, well, had a few accidents at home and learned to cover the evidence so Mum and Percy would never find about it.”

Everybody oohed because it seemed like the twins were more bent towards destruction or at least acute and permanent transfiguration. Few people knew they could also repair things, but in retrospect it made a lot of sense.

“I knew I hadn’t dreamed it,” Harry said, smiling. He was tired, but a good kind of tired, with plenty of unused energy and excitement. Tired but full of energy because that unbearable weight had been lifted. “That window appeared overnight!”

“Yes,” answered Fred. “The dusty curtains were a very nice touch. That was George.”

(So that’s how the living room had gotten that round window on the corner. Harry had spent half the winter break questioning himself and his memory-retaining ability, until Percy unexpectedly told him that he was fine and not to worry.)

Fred took a step back and pointed his wand at the missing door to the living room. He waved it.

Nothing happened. They looked patiently, staring at the blackened wood and the cracked bricks, the dust layered over everything.

Fred tried again and again and then shook the wand in frustration and nothing happened, not even a spark.

Regulus looked at his own wand as the same time that Draco turned to him and nudged him, telling him to try something.

Nope. Not even a spark.

Draco passed Regulus his wand and Harry gave his to Fred because it was quicker than searching for the other wands. They also tried with Luna’s.

Absolutely nothing. Not a light, not a sound, not even the barest movement. They didn’t get sparks when they shook them, even though Harry’s wand was particularly hot-tempered and when he and Draco and Luna shook it they all got white sparks and a few golden ones.

“I think,” Regulus said in a calm voice, like a chocolate cake left to cool, “that we have lost our magic.”

Which was, to a wizard, like being castrated. Worse than being castrated, perhaps. Magic was what gave you a place in society and a reason to be there, to work and interact. Everybody knew that squibs were mostly useless. If you didn’t have magic you had nothing.

(There had been that case… Every time Harry thought of it he instantly got bile in the back of his mouth. His workmates promised him that it wasn’t common, but the fact remained that the eleven-year-old was dead at the hands of his own family.)

“Death always takes some payment,” Harry said softly. That rule had been there from the beginning. Many things worked on a rule of three, although what those three things were could change. With Death, it asked you to accept it and stop running; it asked for a life, always; and it asked for a sacrifice. It was when one of these things was missing that bad things happened and an entire village ended up dead.

Still, they were alive, _alive_. Harry had always known that life might come at a price and even then, he had thought it would be worth it. Life was everything and he would take it at any price and under any condition and then work around it.

“Oh, pickles!” Fred said, looking down. Harry couldn’t tell if the ridiculous exclamation was Fred trying to make them smile or if that was truly his reaction to what should be a horrendous blow. “I was so looking forward to flying above the Burrow with George.”

“You…” Draco said slowly, eyes darting quickly to Harry. “Broomsticks have magic imbued in them. You can still do that.”

“Really?” Despite not having a tail or floppy ears, Fred managed to pull exactly the same expression as Fenton when he saw Draco holding his leash and walking towards the door.

“Even muggles can use them. There are regulations about it.”

“Uh,” said Fred.

“Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.” Draco enunciated slowly as if it were a scathing insult. “Your father worked there.”

“So, I can still fly?”

“Yes,” Harry said quickly. Draco looked like he had completely forgotten about the fight, the fear, the terrible blow that losing their magic ought to be, and was about to start a tirade about how Arthur Weasley must have come across a muggle using a broomstick at some point in his dull career and Fred really ought to know this. “Yes, you can fly as much as you want.”

“Oh, well,” Fred said, still sounding calm, still sounding happy. He shrugged, rocked back on his heels and twirled the wand he was currently holding. “That’s fine. Good, actually.”

“By Merlin’s robe, if I had lost my sight I don’t know what I would do with myself. I wouldn’t be able to read! I can read now,” Regulus added and then, as if wanting to emphasise his luck at keeping his seeing abilities, he went to look out the window. He lasted all of ten seconds before turning around and looking at them, at Luna. Harry would have said something about braille, except he suspected Regulus wasn’t so concerned with reading as he was with appreciating Luna’s face.

Luna had once gifted Ginny a face-cast of herself painted as a lion, so Harry was reasonably sure that Luna would have no problem letting Regulus touch her face if he were blind.

As if on cue, Luna said, “snakes can see through their tongues, you know,” and Regulus coughed and dropped Harry’s wand. Harry looked at Draco, blushed, and hurried to help Regulus pick up the wand. 

“Talking!” Fred exclaimed. “I have very important things to say. I wouldn’t make a good mute.” He demonstrated the last point by miming that he was a very expressive person and he could still get his point across and therefore he was quiet but not silent. Harry tried to explain that muteness wasn’t the same as not being able to speak, but he got tripped in the difference between speaking and talking and completely messed his point, which was that mute people were allowed to say things, thank you very much, silver-tongue Potter, that’s me.

Maybe Harry would have better luck if he stuck to pantomime.

Fred was scratching one of his bruises with the wand. Draco’s wand, actually. “ I didn’t like the experience of being blind. Deafness was a bit better, but still, not enjoyable.” He paused for a second, as if making a decision. “I can live without magic, it just makes things a bit more challenging.”

“Muggles seem to manage fine,” Draco said, in a choked voice.

“If you had lost your voice,” Luna said distractedly. She had crouched to the floor and was sniffing curiously a small pile of ash. Evidently, the tragic and life-ruining loss of magic wasn’t enough to hold her interest for long. “You could get a monkey-lion and drop your thoughts in it, and the monkey-lion would holler them. They live in the Himalayas, or so Guillermine Dollimore says. I am like seventy percent certain that they are real. I wouldn’t mind going to find one, but I would need someone to look after the thestrals. Oh! And if I left around February I would be right in time for the mating season of the rain dragon!”

So that was it.

They gave back the wands. Harry supposed he should attempt to fix the room, clean up a bit, but it felt rude, with Fred standing right there. Fred didn’t think so and was happy to show Harry the spell. Then Draco said that he was taking Fenton for a walk and did anyone want to join him.

Regulus and Fred wanted to join him very much and also to hold Fenton’s leash. They bounced out of the house, the first time they had set foot on the street since Harry found them in the Ministry weeks ago.

For a moment Harry stood there, not knowing what to do. Then Luna came, arms open, and hugged him and it was a very good hug, tight and full of relief. She smelled of sweat and blood and soot and warm milk with an orange peel. It was done, they were finished, finished.

Harry removed the worst of the soot and the debris and did a passable job of fixing the walls. He was oddly glad that Kreacher wasn’t there to see the damage and also Harry’s dreadful way of repairing it. Of course, Kreacher would have insisted on cleaning everything himself. 

Luna helped him levitate a few things down from the higher floors; Harry wasn’t exactly expecting to entertain, but he still needed some chairs in the living room. Not that there were any normal chairs in that house. They all had funny legs and backs and upholstery. Luna told him that the pretty blue backless one he was just setting down in front of a green armchair was a lady’s chair, so she could do her hair and make-up while wearing a ball gown with a long skirt.

The others returned not too long after with wet hair and red cheeks and noses, and announced that being able to go on a walk was a very good thing, they didn’t know how much they had needed it. Regulus had actually hugged a tree. Also, Fred had come to the sudden realization that if he had lost his hearing, instead of his magic, there would only be a good ear between him and his twin. The comedic potential of the situation was exceptional. He wanted to stare at someone and very seriously say that their joke had fallen flat on Fred’s ears, which was far better than any of the squib jokes he had come up with so far.

It was cold and it was raining and they were all grinning. Luna hugged everyone in turn and petted Fenton on the head and gave him a kiss and then she left, waving at them before disapparating.

She had left most of her things behind, taking only the snake with her. She would come back for her stuff or Harry would go to her. She wasn’t disappearing forever. But it felt so. After so many days seeing the same four people it was upsetting seeing them go.

In fact, Harry felt dizzy when he in turn apparated in Diagon Alley. He had been there recently, of course, buying books and pyjamas and potion ingredients and any stupid thing that caught his eye and served to hide his true purpose. It had been dizzying then, also, walking among people and talking to them while under the stress of having two resurrected people in agony back home.

Now the stress was gone and it felt as if someone had lifted a lid that had previously been pressed over the world. People talked louder and lights were brighter. It was the early days of December and people were buying gifts and decorations. Shops were closing late.

Harry stepped aside to let a group of six or seven witches pass. He stared at them dazedly, so much movement and so many colours and voices, and then shook himself to keep going. The door made a fart noise as Harry opened it. There was a human-sized mannequin by the door, dressed in Hogwarts robes, that told Harry to check out the gag gifts on a table nearby. Indeed, there was a huge pile of packages wrapped in purple and gold paper. A young boy, too young to go to Hogwarts yet, grabbed one and the present bit his hand. It was more scary than painful and after the initial surprise the boy held the package against his chest with a gleeful expression.

The shape-changing crystal ornaments for the trees were absolutely breathtaking. Harry had a box of them, the first Ron had created, and had always thought he should hang them around the house all year round. He didn’t know what house, though. The one he currently resided in rightfully belonged to Regulus, and Harry had been thinking of selling it and moving somewhere else in any case; somewhere that felt like his own place.

One of the ornaments was a snitch that turned into an apple. Draco would like that one. Harry should buy it.

But not now. He had come here for another purpose.

“Hey, Harry! Good to see you! It has been too long. Ron is in the back, near the singing hats.”

ooOoo

Harry understood this was a bad time, but he didn’t want to delay. When he told George that it was important and kind of urgent and that it would take a long time, George didn’t hesitate. He called Verity to tell her that she had to close the shop tonight and went with Harry to find Ron.

Ron was a bit tense and a bit hesitant like he always was after an argument with Harry, but he didn’t hesitate either, even if he asked a lot of questions as he grabbed his wand and cloak and hat. When had he started to wear a hat?

“It is not a bad thing,” Harry said for what felt the sixth or seventh time. He suspected that the more times he repeated it the less effect it had and the more suspicious they grew. “It is just very difficult to explain. Come with me. You have your wands? Excellent.”

“Did something happen to the door?” asked Ron when they apparated in front of Grimmauld Place, followed by, “The ceiling is missing!” when Harry opened the door and they went inside.

“Yes,” Harry said quickly. He didn’t care about the ceiling. He might leave it like that because it made the foyer less dark.

“I can fix it, if you want,” added George, and Harry gave him a look that he knew was startled and disquieting, but he couldn’t help it. George had that strained look for when he was actively trying not to think of Fred.

“Maybe. Thank you.” Harry was full of nerves and it was beginning to show. He took a deep breath. “One last thing,” he said, before opening the new door to the living room. There were a couple of bricks sticking out of the wooden surface. “You might get angry with me and I just want you to remember that I had very good reasons not to tell you sooner and everyone involved agreed. Okay. That is all.”

His hand was on the handle, pushing down.

“Harry,” said George slowly. Ron looked concerned but said nothing. He was far more used to Harry having kept or done something that might make people angry. He usually learned about it immediately, though. “You are frightening us.”

This was the opportunity of a lifetime, so Harry took it.

“But you are George, you can’t be afred,” he said, trying to control his face somewhat so he wouldn’t look completely demented.

George’s smile wavered. George’s nature was to laugh, to appreciate jokes and puns even at his own expense, to be the incarnation of cheer. But Harry had mentioned Fred and it was difficult for George to feel anything other than pain. It had been nine years and he had dealt with it, learned to live with it much like someone learns to live with only one lung. Sometimes he even forgot the absence, but every time he noticed it, it hurt, and Harry had just reminded him.

Ron looked at Harry darkly because he should know better and also because Harry wasn’t big on puns. Harry was about deadpan remarks and scathing sarcasm and this was all very out of character.

They came into the living room. Standing near the fireplace and smartly dressed in dark grey with gold accents, with his beautiful hair freshly brushed, was Regulus Black.

George and Ron looked at him and then at Harry, confused.

“Ah! Welcome. You must be Mister and Mister Weasley,” Regulus said grandly, with that voice that felt like sinking into fluffy cushions. “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Regulus Arcturus Black, Death Eater defector, formerly deceased.”

“The fuck,” said Ron in a low voice, quite rightly.

Harry explained, brief and bare: A visit to the Department of Mysteries; encountering someone who came from beyond the Veil (and it was pretty helpful that Ron had been there, had seen the arch and the Veil); the fear that the crushing machinery of the Ministry might be less than helpful; the mysterious unending sickness and discovering that someone or something wanted to get to Regulus and take him. Also Kreacher had died, which wasn’t strictly related to the story but deserved a mention because it certainly added to Harry’s stress levels.

“You should have called me, Harry,” Ron said somberly. It hurt him that his best friend hadn’t called, but it also hurt him that he might have done something to make his best friend not call. Ginny had called him an idiot a couple of times already and Percy had said nothing, because he never did, but he had given Ron one of those looks that said he was acting like an idiot and he knew that Ron knew it.

“I… perhaps I should have,” Harry admitted, which Ron didn’t expect because he was pretty sure that it was _his_ fault not Harry’s. “But, believe me, I did what I thought was best at every stage. Also, there was a promise I had to keep.”

“He was very professional in dealing with the monstrous villain,” Regulus said, smiling with enthusiasm. For all he picked on Harry and his eloquence, he was a big fan of Harry’s combat skills. “The big hole in the foyer wasn’t him, that was us.”

“Nevertheless.” There was an honest apology in Ron’s voice. Harry hoped he remembered the sentiment in ten minutes.

At least both he and George had taken Harry’s word and given him the benefit of not thinking him utterly mad. If Harry said that the elegant man in his living room was a formerly dead Death Eater, then he must be. It wasn’t the strangest thing Harry had ever told Ron. He had been way more surprised when they discovered that professor Lupin was a werewolf.

“All right, Harry,” said Ron. Because that was Ron, he would all-right anything. Luna had the reputation of believing impossible things, but Ron had developed a blanket acceptance of _everything_, at least in belief-related matters. He was less accepting of people falling out of love and parting ways, but other than that, you could tell him anything and he would shrug and say, “Eh, could be.”

“This is very surprising,” Ron went on, looking at both Regulus and Harry. Regulus grinned at him and clasped his hands together. As gestures of reassurance went, it was odd and old-fashioned, as if Regulus had lots of feelings but little practice. Ron blinked slowly and visibly decided not to comment or dwell on it. “But I just don’t see what it has to do with us, George in particular, and why it is so urgent. How can we help?”

Bless Ron for wanting to help. He really was a good friend. Harry was taking him for a pint.

“Oh, no,” Regulus said chirpily, tossing his hair over his shoulder. It was something he had picked up from Fred and Harry wondered if Ron and George noticed it. “It’s not about me. We just thought it might help with the shock if you saw someone else who had been resurrected first.”

“Someone… else?” George whispered like a prayer. He was suddenly very rigid. He didn’t turn around at the footsteps that came up behind him.

“Hey, George! No, please, don’t faint! Okay, I got you, I’m going to bring you over here and sit down, all right? Aww, don’t cry, George. I will cry too and Ronnie is here. Come on, Georgy.”

George cried, despite what Fred said. Fred cried. Ron cried. Ron sobbed for ten minutes on Harry’s chest. Merlin’s beard, balls, back, bottom and even bones were invoked numerous times. Tea was fetched and also a bottle of liquor to make it stronger, half the contents of which was spilled over the table. Regulus went in and out of the room, unsure of what to do with himself now. There was quite a lot of laughter too.

“Does Percy know?” asked Ron between hitched breaths. He kept dabbing at his eyes to dry the tears there.

“Percy?” Harry was just happy with how well it had gone. Nobody had fainted and knocked their head on a corner of the table (there was no table, the tea tray was just floating next to them). Nobody had had a heart attack. Harry was pretty sure that they were done and finished and both Regulus and Fred were here to stay, but after all the reading he had done he knew that Death had a cruel sense of humour. Harry had to account for the possibility that the moment the twins were reunited one of them would get sick and die right there. There were a couple of precedents, although with lovers instead of siblings.

“No,” Harry said. “As soon as I knew they were good and healed and safe I went to you. You and George. Ginny is going to bite my head off and _eat it_.”

“We have to get Percy,” Ron said, ignoring the comment about Ginny and standing up quickly. “Merlin’s breastbone! Percy was almost as bad as George. He has been blaming himself for years! I though, sometimes, that he would— , that he— ”

Whatever Percival Ignatius Weasley might have done in his grief was left unsaid as Ron went through the foyer (“where is the— oh, hello, Malfoy”) and outside the house. He disapparated right away.

Draco was leaning against the door to the dining room where he had been waiting with Fred for the right moment to make his entry and where he had stayed safe from the drama of the family reunion. He looked at Harry, eyebrows up and a soft and amused smile on his stupid lips. He was wearing the black sweater, the one Harry had given him, and he looked like a second prince.

“It went well,” Harry said. He was exhausted, drained from all emotions.

“Come here.”

He went. Draco put an elegant hand on Harry’s waist and gave him a kiss, small and simple. A mere encounter of lips that was comfortable and easy. It didn’t have the heat and the passion and the tongue of the other kisses. It was just a kiss for a small moment because that’s what they did now, share the small things as well as the big world-saving ones.

“I think I’m going to go, now,” Draco said. He had broken the kiss, but he was still pretty close to Harry. “Take my things back, let Fenton have a long walk.”

Harry nodded. He would nod at anything Draco said at this distance. “Will I see you later?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Harry took a kiss for himself and wondered how something so small could make his heart burn so.

ooOoo

Ron apparated right in the middle of the street accompanied by a ghostly pale Percy. It was evident that Harry’s way of breaking the news was much better because Percy grew paler and paler as they came closer to the house and the moment he crossed the threshold his knees gave out and he fell to the floor.

He managed to get himself back after a couple of seconds. He was breathing with difficulty and there was sweat on his temples. Harry felt very sorry for him. He hadn’t thought much about it, but he supposed that it had been particularly hard for Percy. Fred had died just as Percy came back to the family, he had died laughing at the joke Percy had made. That would mess someone up.

Ron had been remarkably discreet, but Harry knew that he had been checking on Percy after the war. He knew it through Ginny though, who bristled at the idea of a well-liked brother like Ron having dinner with the one she disliked the most. Ginny had needed years to forgive Percy and even now their relationship wasn’t the best.

They had all taken years to get used to that new dynamic. It wasn’t just Fred who was gone. George was absent too, victim of the grief, and without the twins to smooth things out and make them laugh, things had been tense for all of them.

They got Percy to the living room and to the twins sitting together. He didn’t faint but he fell to the floor once more, sobbing so hard that it looked like his chest was going to break in two. Ron stayed by Percy’s side, patting his back. He was crying, eyes red and his chin trembling, but it was nothing compared to the utter wreck Percy had become. Regulus looked at Harry and mouthed, “Where is Fenton?” but he and Draco were long gone.

Harry put a cup of tea in Percy’s hands. He heard him mutter that he was going crazy and only tea was real.

“All right, Perce,” Fred said. He had taken the few steps separating them and kneeled beside his older brother. “All right.”

The cup fell to the floor, the tea spilled on the already stained rug. Harry shouldn’t have bothered bringing a rug down, but the room looked too empty and cold otherwise. Percy sobbed in Fred’s arms for a very long time. He only stopped when he heard Fred say that it wasn’t Percy’s fault, it never was.

“So!” said Regulus, taking a sit next to George. “I have become good friends with Fred and I understand that you two are a package deal so let’s get up to speed. How do you feel about crosswords?”

ooOoo

George would be taking Fred with him, of course, and Ron would take Percy back to his house and to the boyfriend who would not be impressed with the state in which Percy was returned. It would take a while before anyone was in any condition to apparate, though.

For the moment Regulus and Fred were hugging as if they were never going to see each other again even when Harry promised to take Regulus to Diagon Alley the next morning. This had brought up the fact, previously forgotten, that Regulus and Fred couldn’t do magic anymore and they had all cried again, more out of nerves and tension than any real tragedy, Harry thought. George had promised that he would never do magic again, if that’s what Fred needed. They had had to stop him before he snapped his own wand.

“Yeah, George, I don’t need that.”

Harry put a glass of warm milk in George’s hands and squeezed his shoulder. Percy was drinking his own milk slowly, taking slow breaths and looking around him with an exhausted expression. George had sweat and snot and tear tracks all over his face and looked like he had returned from burying a body. Harry didn’t want to know what Angelina was going to say about that.

It had gone well and they were all happy, despite how much they were crying. But Harry needed a second because the business of bringing miracles to people was very tiring. He retired to the dining room, close enough that he would be right there if they needed him. He pressed his forehead against the window and took a deep slow breath. There was a scratch in the glass that hadn’t been there two days before. The talon of the Demon or the burn of a spell.

“Fred killed a Demon,” Harry said. Ron was also coming into the room, probably for similar reasons. “Once-in-a-century event, and it is not even in the top ten most important things that have happened.”

Ron let out a soft laugh, tired but easy. They had it back, Harry knew, the friendship, the trust, the love for each other.

“By the way,” Ron came to stand next to him, also pressing his forehead against the cold glass. It was very relieving. “Was that really Malfoy I saw? He was helping you, you mentioned him earlier.”

Harry swallowed and nodded. “Yes.” He smiled, because the mere mention of Draco brought a smile to his face. “Luna suggested him. I needed someone really intelligent to help me with research. He figured out there was something off about Quinn.”

“Uh. I… Wow. I can’t imagine, I mean, it’s difficult to imagine that he would help you. He wasn’t bad when we were captured, at the manor, but I don’t imagine that he was eager to help.”

Harry laughed softly. “He was not. Believe me.”

“Still.” Ron turned his head, pressing his temple against the window. He had cut his hair recently. “If you offered him money I guess he would say yes. He had to welcome the change of pace at the very least.”

Harry said, “Yes,” and then, “no,” because he knew that Draco needed money but Draco had refused it. It had been curiosity more than anything that brought him back. Curiosity and kindness towards the others. From what Draco said, and given that at first he only came a couple of hours each day, he had kept working at his mysterious odd-hours job.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, lifting his head from the window. “Change of pace?”

“Eh, you know,” Ron said, and made a gesture with his hand that meant nothing, absolutely nothing.

“I really don’t,” Harry said after a pause and found it was true. Even now, after years in the wizarding world, there were many things that went over his head. He still relied on Ron explaining them as he did when they were eleven years old.

Ron turned to him and raised his voice unconsciously. “Come on, you know what people say. He… I mean, he and his parents were acquitted when no one else was. You know what that was about!”

Harry didn’t. Harry thought that it had been enough for him to give a fair statement to the tribunal about the involvement of the Malfoys and their actions. Even if Harry had dismissed it when Draco refused to recognise him and chalked it up to cowardice on his part, Narcissa had lied to Voldemort to his face. For her own benefit, true, but she had done what many other couldn’t. She had _lied_ to Voldemort. That had to count for something.

“_Four_ out of five judges voted to let them go free. Three would have been strange, but possible; but four is just too much,” Ron explained. “They bought the votes. Malfoy bought the votes.”

Harry didn’t think so and at the same time he had no trouble believing that the Wizengamot could be bought. If the Ministry could have an immortal being take over the Department of Mysteries without anyone knowing, they could have some everyday corruption.

Still, it didn’t make sense. All the money and assets and the estate had been seized during the trial. They might have had some assets hidden away, Harry would be surprised if they didn’t, but probably not enough to buy all the votes.

He frowned. “With what money?” he asked. Harry knew some of the senior members of the Wizengamot. Their honesty might be for sale, but it wouldn’t be cheap.

“Errr, none,” Ron was now resting with his back against the wall. He looked around the room. “Just like now. He is unemployable. Nobody wants a Slytherin or an ex-Death Eater. You know that.”

Harry nodded. He knew that. He understood it. He also thought in some cases it was a little unfair and more than a little dangerous. You had to make sure that people didn’t have a reason to want another war, that they had enough to live quiet lives.

“So I guess Draco used what he had and that’s what he keeps using to make money. Anthony told me that he had seen him at a party, and Seamus swears he saw him, too, on the street, and that he knows a couple of guys who, uh, hired him.”

Ron hadn’t really answered. He hadn’t said it, but he didn’t have to. Harry understood now and shuddered as he thought of the lecherous grin of Emericus Slughorn, second chair of the Wizengamot. Harry’s stomach rolled and he had to press his lips together.

He _knew_ Draco wasn’t doing well financially. He wore used clothes that seemed almost muggle, he took food that was probably destined for Fenton but the point was that he took it, and that day, that day when Harry ruined dinner and Draco went to put in an order. There had been relief in his eyes when Harry insisted on giving him the money to pay.

Harry had seen it. The insistence that Draco had a job but then not having any obvious working hours. His night owl habits. Even the occasional touches of paint on his face and hands. Remnants of make-up, Harry thought, carefully applied and hastily removed.

_“Did someone tell you something?”_

The careful, guarded look in Draco’s eyes when Harry acted odd after the fake-Luna attack. Draco was reserved and avoided certain topics and Harry was so sorry. Draco was a prostitute. That’s what he had to do to gain his parents’ freedom. That’s what he did to survive because they hadn’t left him any other recourse, any other space in their society.

Draco had kissed him first, he had to remember that. Harry had explained, weirdly and awkwardly, but he had explained about his attraction and then taken a step back. But what if, what if Draco thought that Harry would press further, so he tried to keep him at bay and happy with kisses and nothing else?

He had said “maybe” when Harry asked to see him.

“Harry?” asked Ron.

“I didn’t know,” he said slowly.

Ron laughed. “You wouldn’t have, if you weren’t looking for it, I suppose. Hey, I see Fred and Regulus are finally disentangling. I better taken them home now and get them settled. Tomorrow is going to be a day. Drop by the Burrow, will you? I’m sure Mum will want to cry and yell at you.”

Ron pushed away from the wall, full of energy, and went and took Percy by the arm, shook Regulus’ hand, and steered everybody outside.

And Harry stayed there, thinking. He wanted to throw up.

ooOoo

Regulus noticed something was wrong, of course, but Regulus had had a day full of tension with a duel and a visit to nightmare land. He had cake for dinner and went to sleep early, saying only that he agreed with Harry that the foyer looked better with no ceiling.

Harry found that he liked Regulus, and not just because of his resemblance to Sirius. Regulus was less pretty, more sarcastic and very well grounded. Harry cut himself a small slice of cake and that, and a sandwich, was his dinner. He didn’t really appreciate the taste.

Harry took a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally did, he had weird dreams about all of them being in that cell waiting for something and drinking tea. Then he was back in the corridor where most of the fight had taken place and Quinn was kissing Draco, touching him, undressing him. When Harry cast flames over Quinn he released Draco, but Draco was also burned in the process.

ooOoo

Harry turned in bed and woke up with a jolt of pain. His side was still tender in the area where it was burned. He also had bruises blooming that he hadn’t healed yesterday because he hadn’t even noticed them. Nothing too big, though. The worst was the burn and it wasn’t all that bad. Just a big area of pink skin that was hot and delicate.

He wondered if Draco had other bruises too, if the _sectumsempra_ wounds were stinging. Thinking about Draco’s body meant thinking something else, and while before Harry would have thought about how smooth Draco’s skin was, about the soft smell Harry could get when he sat close to Draco, now he thought of that body being sold and taken and abused. He thought about it and his stomach grew full of anger and hate, not at Draco, but at all the men that took advantage.

The worst part was that Harry was half hard and he didn’t know what to do about it. If there had been shame and guilt before, a feeling that he was trespassing when he thought about Draco that way, now that feeling had grown a hundred times. The old fantasies (an arranged marriage, an inheritance with an unexpected erotic condition, being locked up somewhere) were broken. It felt wrong.

He ended up taking a cold and miserable shower.

Regulus joined him halfway to breakfast. He had had a long shower, too, and his hair was still wet. It smelled of pomegranate and cherry. He sat with Harry in the kitchen and blinked slowly.

“Today is my first day, I think,” he said. Harry understood what he meant. Not the first day back alive but the first day back to life. A day with no sickness and no fear and no anxious waiting.

Harry grinned and because he had been there, bruised and hurt and in shock and with Voldemort dead, he said: “The first of many, so you can take it easy.”

Regulus needed to hear that because he wanted to go out and see the world and also get new clothes and visit Fred, and Kreacher’s grave, and maybe the lake in the cave, although he wasn’t in a hurry for that, the clothes were more important, and eating cherries, and putting lotion on his hands, and…

“Take as long as you want,” Harry said as they finally left the house. Regulus was dressed in a lavender and grey suit with a matching cravat and pocket handkerchief. “You can take the Knight Bus back home, or to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, although I think Fred will probably be at the Burrow.”

“Oh, can I?” Regulus asked, considerably merry given the implication there. He had no magic anymore, he wasn’t a wizard. The Knight Bus was for wizards.

“What? Oh, yes. Don’t worry. You don’t need a wand anymore. Just the money. You have money?’”

Regulus tapped the purse recently filled by Harry. They were due to have a conversation there because the house and all that was in it rightfully belonged to Regulus, but that could wait. For now Harry was taking Regulus to Luna’s cottage, carrying with them most of the things she had left behind. (Harry had strategically left a neck scarf out in case someone needed an excuse for a second visit.) After five minutes at Luna’s cottage, Harry stood up, hugged Luna and left. He was sure that Regulus would like to take a look around.

Harry went back to the house. It was silent in a very special way and it took Harry a while to realise that it was the first time he had been alone, completely alone, in there. There was no one, not even Kreacher. It was just him in a big old house.

He went to bring the painting back from its safe storage in the kitchen. After a moment of thought he took it to the library rather than the living room. That room was too bare now and Harry thought that he would be spending more time in the library.

The palms of his hands were sweating. He dried them against his trousers, as carefully chosen as Regulus’ clothes. _Maybe_, Draco had said, and Harry had no idea if that was a yes or a no. Perhaps he should write a little note and send it with Aeneas. As if knowing Harry was thinking about him, Aeneas opened his one good eye and looked at Harry with a jolly expression.

The doorbell rang. Five tolls like a hammer hitting a broken pot. It was midmorning now and Harry knew it was the usual time Draco came, before he stayed in the house full-time.

There were around twenty steps between the library and the door. Harry was able to fill them all with thoughts. If Draco was coming at his usual time, did that mean that he had gone back to his routine? And what did that mean? Yesterday Draco had left before nine. Where had he gone?

Where had he been?

With who?

With who?

With who?

If Harry had grabbed his hand, would he have stayed? Could Harry have stopped him?

Would Draco even want to be stopped?

Draco came in wearing something dark, but not the black sweater Harry had given him. His coat, Harry noticed, was old and a bit too thin for the weather. The collar was stained from wear.

Draco smiled at him, which was huge relief, but there was a whisper of doubt in that smile.

He asked how things had gone the previous night, if there were any accidents, how were things today. Regulus and Fred were finally healthy and no one was actively trying to kill them, but there was still the matter of what the Ministry might do with them. The only difference was that now they could fight back. They might not have magic but they had the strength to fight or run. Harry told him that he had left Regulus at Luna’s cottage and Draco smiled at that.

He showed Draco to the library. The painting greeted them from above the fireplace. Aeneas greeted them, too, hopping on his perch. Draco had an amused and resigned expression, either at the painting he didn’t like which was hanging in a place of honour, or at the jolly fat one-eyed owl that wasn’t good for much.

“Listen, Draco,” Harry said, opening a drawer from the desk. He had had a long time to think about it. Too long, probably. 

He took a pouch from the drawer, soft dyed leather with silk lining inside.

“I know you are going to say no, but take it anyway,” Harry said as he put the pouch full of money by the table next to Draco. He would have put a thousand galleons in there, if he thought he could get away with it. It was just fifty, though. Half the usual salary for a month of work. “For your help. Or not your help, I know you gave that generously. But for the inconvenience.”

“If you know I’m going to say ‘no,’ why even try?” Draco replied. His hand turned upwards, palm open while he asked the question. He had very nice hands. The thumb and forefinger of his right hand had a dark smudge on them, like smoky eyeshadow.

“It didn’t stop me before,” answered Harry, forcing himself to look at Draco’s face rather than his hands. Draco’s face was washed clean, a bit rosy still from the cold outside. “Just. Buy Fenton a nice toy or something.”

Draco laughed at that and after only a second he picked up the bag. Something in Harry’s chest relaxed.

“You didn’t have to, you know,” Draco said, looking up through lowered eyes. He looked almost shy and humble. It was a very strange look on him.

Draco’s eyes lowered again and stopped for a second on Harry’s lips. This would be a good time to kiss Draco, except Harry has just handed him money and he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t, not at all. He opened his mouth again which was probably worse.

“And I want you to know, that… you can count on me, Draco, for whatever you need. And if you ever need money you only have to ask. I won’t have any expectations, I promise. I am in your debt and I will respect you.”

The almost shyness was gone. Draco had straightened and stood tall and firm like a stone statue.

“Expectations,” he said. The X sounding like a fuse burning before the little explosion of the P.

“I mean,” Harry began, already feeling that he had said something wrong. “That I don’t want you to feel pressured to… No, forget that. The point is that whatever you need, I will give it to you and I won’t be presuming anything.”

“Oh? And I am in dire need of help?”

“Well…” Harry had no idea why Draco was looking at him like that. “No? But, Draco, you don’t have to do any of that, if you don’t want to.”

Draco was still and impassive, but it wasn’t perfect. He was taking faster breaths. His voice, when he spoke, sounded hurt. His eyes were hard glass.

“Do what, exactly?” he asked like an accusation.

Harry didn’t know what to say and stood there at a complete loss. He knew he had gone wrong somewhere but he didn’t understand how or when. All he wanted was for Draco to like him back, freely and willingly, and for Draco to not have to resort to desperate means to survive. Harry didn’t know how that could be bad, why Draco was looking at him with eyes full of ice.

The silence hung between them like misty breath in a freezing night.

Draco opened his hand and let the pouch fall. He didn’t throw it, he didn’t hurl it back, he didn’t even drop it as if it burned his hand. He simply stopped holding it.

“Fuck you.”

He turned around and left in silence. Not another word, not a reproach or a tear or a gasp. He didn’t falter as Harry called him and Harry didn’t dare grab his arm. In ten seconds Draco was in the street and he had disapparated just a second after that.

ooOoo

“_WHAT THE HELL HARRY?_”

Ginny’s howler was about Fred, no doubt, but it felt very much on point with Harry’s current feelings.

The pouch with the money was still on the floor and Harry couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Aeneas was fighting with the howler, opening his wings threateningly. The howler, once its message had been delivered, began to burn which Aeneas took as further reason to tear it apart. 

How could have things turned so wrong.

Harry was more tired than yesterday and yesterday he had fought and defeated a murderous master illusionist. Today he had royally screwed up, he had hurt Draco, and then he had been dragged to the Burrow for a very emotional and draining reunion. At Fred’s insistence they had decided to take the news to the family slowly and in stages. Fred had been overwhelmed by their reaction, particularly Percy’s, and he wanted to be practical about it, no more than two people fainting at once.

Harry didn’t want to be there. He felt like he shouldn’t, but Ron hadn’t left him any option and took him (Regulus, too) to deliver the news to Mr and Mrs Weasley. Part of it was that they considered Harry a member of the family and Ron was showing him the best way he knew; part of it was that Harry’s approach had worked pretty well, much better than Ron’s who had gotten Percy upset long before he got him to Grimmauld Place.

(Ron said he mimicked Harry and didn’t say anything other than Percy had to come with him, but apparently that was enough for Percy to worry.)

Harry hadn’t stayed for the reveal to Ginny and Bill, hence the much deserved howler. Ginny used to be his girlfriend, he should have been there for her, but Harry felt too empty inside.

He looked down at the pouch on the floor. There was now a little bit of scorched paper next to it.

“There is a woman knocking at the door,” Regulus said, coming into the library. He looked tired and very at peace. Mrs Weasley had cried on him and fed him in equal measures and Regulus was walking in a pleased stupor. His first day had been pretty nice. “She has been there for fifteen minutes now. I don’t suppose that’s Ginny.”

Ginny would have broken the door down by now. “Why didn’t you open the door?”

Regulus shrugged. “Why didn’t you?” He inclined his head, like Fenton when they were saying nonsense to him, which happened often because the dog invited all kind of silly confessions. “Something is the matter. You seem off.”

Yes, Harry was feeling off, that was the word exactly. He was out, extinct, muted. He was outside of himself looking in because all the inside of himself was full of raw desperate sadness and pain.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Regulus. There was another ring at the door and he added, dismissively, “She can wait. She has been waiting a while already.”

It wasn’t Ginny, or the door wouldn’t be standing, and it wasn’t Luna because Regulus would have opened the door for her and it wasn’t Hermione because she would have announced herself with a letter and also she would have already tried a window. Harry couldn’t think of any other important woman he should open the door to.

He rubbed his face and looked down at the pouch and the little piece of paper. He spoke.

Regulus was a very good listener and also very mature, considering his age. As if the years he had spent dead had left a mark on him after all. Harry suspected that wasn’t the case and Regulus had just always been a mature, serious boy. He was a fan of crosswords; that imparted a certain character.

“I understand how you meant well and also managed to go wrong,” Regulus said when Harry was done. He bent down to pick up the pouch and the piece of paper, throwing the latter to the rubbish bin and dropping the pouch on the desk. “You are really awful with words, Harry. And I am not too sure that you saw this right.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry said in a drowning voice. He had thought he would feel better after talking about it, but he didn’t. He felt worse. Now his actions were even more real, Draco’s anger even more biting, and Harry didn’t know where exactly he had gone wrong.

“I want to say that only death is permanent, but, you know,” Regulus smiled. Not a smile as beautiful as Sirius’, but not as wild either. It was very comforting. “His anger won’t be permanent either.”

“You think so?”

Regulus pursed his lips and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do. Draco doesn’t seem to cling to bad things. Doesn’t mean he won’t punch you next time he sees you,” he added as a warning but Harry didn’t mind. He would take a punch gladly if that’s what it took for Draco to stop being angry.

When they left the library they saw (because it was full of light now) that there was card in the foyer. The woman had finally left, but not before leaving a note urging Harry to call or write her. The name was familiar, a journalist for _The Prophet_, one of the poisonous ones.

Regulus took the card from him and tore it with a meaningful look.

ooOoo

Harry was feeling much better than yesterday. His heart and stomach hurt, and they had switched places, but he had a path before him _and_ he had successfully found a way to overcome the first obstacle. He was going to find Draco and apologise. He was going to make things right.

The first obstacle was that he didn’t know where Draco lived. Draco had been remarkably discreet about, well, everything from his job to his home. Harry knew why now but the fact still remained that nobody knew where Draco lived. Kreacher did, but he was dead, and even if he weren’t he probably wouldn’t tell Harry.

Aeneas hooted with excitement when he saw that he would have company as he went to deliver a note to Draco. After twenty minutes he perched on Harry’s broomstick and rode there, looking extremely happy and smug, until it was time to make a turn and he took off. Harry followed, adjusting direction. He felt silly following his owl and sillier still when Aeneas descended to a very muggle street of Haverhill.

It was one of the very last streets of the town, bordered by fields on one side and a row of heterogeneous houses on the other. There was a two-story house, two attached houses painted yellow and pink and a bungalow of the cheap and simple variety.

Aeneas stopped on the gutter of the bungalow and hooted twice. Harry descended a bit slower, looking doubtfully at the place and the houses. It wasn’t Privet Drive but it all looked very common and daylike. There was nothing remarkable or remotely magical there.

“Are you sure?” he asked Aeneas in a whisper; he didn’t want to alert the muggle residents.

Aeneas shook his wings and began to pick his feathers.

There was no fence or hedge where Harry could leave the broomstick, just a very small strip of grass in front of the house. He left it there because knocking on someone’s door while holding a broomstick was always awkward even when the other person was a wizard, which Harry wasn’t sure would be the case.

The door was painted dark green but it looked almost black in the pale light. There was a white plastic doorbell. Harry pressed the button and it rang with the typical ring one would expect for a little house like this. Nothing eerie or sparky or remotely magical whatsoever. No faery bell, no feeling that you were being inspected by the doorknocker (Grimmauld Place), no secret welcome between the notes (Ron’s flat). Nothing. Ding-dong.

A dog barked excitedly and then got quiet. Harry mentally counted the seconds until the door opened, only it wasn’t opening. It was beginning to rain, not enough to be considered rain but enough to be an annoyance.

Then the door opened and Draco was there, dressed in washed-out jeans that had atrocious cuffs and a blue t-shirt, looking beautiful and pissed.

“What? Came to see what your galleons can buy?” He wasn’t crossing his arms, which was the classical defensive position, but he probably didn’t need to because it was enough with his voice and the absolutely glacial stare he was giving Harry. Something that cold shouldn’t be able to burn and yet it did. Harry was reddening just from that stare.

“No! I wou— , I would never. Draco!” spluttered Harry, caught unprepared by the door opening suddenly, by Draco being there after all, by the sweet line of his neck and by his cutting words.

Draco didn’t move. His left arm was resting against the frame of the door. The head of the snake was looking at Harry.

“I just, I wish you had told me. I wouldn’t have… I would have acted differently. But Draco, you must understand, I really care about you and I just wanted to help.”

“Oh my,” Draco replied in an ugly mocking tone. It had always been too easy for him, coming up with the right words and making the worst kind of remarks. “Are you trying to _save_ me?”

“I…” Harry faltered. There had been so much venom in the word “save” that he didn’t know if he was supposed to say yes or not. “I don’t want you to be hurt,” he said at last.

“Fuck off, Potter.”

The sound of the door closing wasn’t half as painful as hearing Draco revert to Harry’s last name.

ooOoo

It only occurred to Harry that he could apparate back to Grimmauld Place rather than make the miserable flight in the rain when he was twenty minutes into it and already wet. Aeneas was hitching a ride back on the broomstick, huddling into Harry’s chest to avoid the rain.

Harry descended into a field slowly and got off of the broom. His hands were cold and pink, his fingers had wrinkled. He was short of breath and the air was too cold when it went through his nose and his mouth.

He cried. Just for five minutes. He thought he might be crying for other things too, for all the fear and the stress of the last few weeks, for how lonely he had felt, for how glorious it had been to have Draco around, to talk to him, to listen to him, to kiss him and be kissed back. He cried for how he had ruined it and how his attempt at fixing it had failed.

Afterwards Harry leaned against a tree that didn’t offer much cover and petted Aeneas until he was reasonably sure that his eyes weren’t red anymore. Then he apparated back to London.

Regulus said he would prepare tea while Harry dried himself off and got changed. He proudly explained how well he could prepare tea even though he was doing it the muggle way. Harry wasn’t sure if Regulus was actually that proud or if he had noticed how wretched Harry felt and was talking to cover for it. Maybe both.

Regulus sat in front of Harry in one of the armchairs holding his own cup of tea. He sighed and said nothing else, looking at the bare walls of the living room and thinking of things of his own. Harry made a note to ask about it later. Somehow he didn’t think Regulus would tell him right now.

The newspaper was lying on the little table; the crossword had already been filled in ink. One of the answers was _isthmus_ and Harry felt a tug in his heart because Regulus had written that, in ink. Regulus was bookish and kind and made tea the muggle way and deserved to have a nice life.

The_ Prophet_ had the news of “Reglus” and Fred’s return to life. That was all they had, really. They had managed to get together a story about what little was known about Regulus, posthumous recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class for his work against Voldemort. Harry had forgotten all about that even though he had been the one to tell Kinsley about it, just as he explained Snape’s true character. The_ Prophet_ was sure that soon there would be a ceremony to hand Regulus the medal.

The Weasley family had asked for privacy at this time and they were all taking some personal days off work so they were not available to comment. However, the same persistent journalist who, yesterday, had spent over an hour calling at Grimmauld Place had managed to snatch a quote from Fred himself (unless it was George). He didn’t say anything about his resurrection, Regulus, Harry, or any of the other people involved; just that the crosswords in the_ Prophet_ were very difficult but engaging and that _Ruff!_ was an excellent thing and he was disappointed to find that there wasn’t a book compiling all the strips yet. Truly, wizarding society as a whole had failed in that respect.

Page seven was running the editorial top picks of _Ruff!_ strips. Harry was disappointed to find that they didn’t include one about him.

Ron called them via the fireplace to tell them they were invited to dinner at the shop. Fred had separation anxiety or something and was missing Regulus very much and so did George, even though he barely knew Regulus.

“Twins, I swear,” said Ron, although he didn’t sound all that annoyed. There was a softness in his eyes that Harry knew came from seeing the twins back together and being ridiculous. Ron looked stupidly happy and at a loss because of it. He had spent years worrying over nothing in particular, just worrying over the state of his family. 

“We will be there,” Harry promised.

ooOoo

The Ministry came at lunch time, which was just rude. Well not the Ministry itself, because The Ministry was a nine-story building with around a thousand people working in it, but the power of the Ministry as represented by its honourable employees. Two Aurors, two Unspeakables, two scribes from the Wizengamot and one single person dressed in all green that Harry had no idea what department he belonged to. All standing awkwardly on Harry’s doorsteps and trying to get the front spot.

“Yes?” Harry said simply to the gold-blue-red (and one green spot) mass.

“Mister Potter, my name is Caec— ”

“… Norton, from the Department of…”

“… here to ask you some questions.”

“…QUESTIONS!” cried the one in green who had been unceremoniously pushed to the back.

Harry let them stop and restart three times, talking over one other at each attempt. Regulus came to watch what was happening which made them talk even more and interrupt each other quite aggressively and knock the breath out of the man in green with an elbow. Harry got the gist of it, but that was more to do with his experience with the Ministry than any sensible communication on their part. They were here to ask about Regulus and Fred and what had happened with them and also whatever he knew about the former Head of the Department of Mysteries, Mister Aetius Quinn, who they had just found to be in a delinquent state regarding his age and tax status.

Regulus began to laugh and the scribes from the Wizengamot looked at him with rather offended expressions, as did the man in green who was probably from the Treasury. One of the Aurors smiled, though, a woman of thirty called Vanessa who had joined the Auror Office a bit later than usual. She also seemed to find amusement in the ridiculousness of focussing on Quinn’s taxes. The man was over two hundred years old, using dark magic, a suspect in over thirty murders (they were still going back in the archives) and by all lights guilty of prevarication. Yet unpaid taxes were the main concern.

She saw Harry look at her and she seized the opportunity, asking if perhaps there was something he wanted to share. She didn’t get much further because the others asked, requested and demanded that he give satisfactory and comprehensive explanations to their questions.

(“…QUESTIONS! And stop pushing me, you guys!”)

Harry closed the door.

He opened it once again half an hour later. They were milling around the street but they hurried to the door the moment they heard it open. One of the Unspeakables had a bloody lip and the man in green had his sleeve torn.

“You can have this,” Harry said, “and a full report on how it fought and was defeated. Please keep it in mind before any of you even begin to think of harassing Mister Weasley or Mister Black. Attempting to classify them as non-human is harassment in my eyes.”

Harry dropped the Demon carcass on the steps. The Aurors and Unspeakables fell on it like, well, like wolves and vultures. They pushed one of the Wizengamot scribes so hard she fell on her arse.

Harry closed the door again.

ooOoo

The rain from Haverhill had reached London so Harry and Regulus took the floo to the apartment above the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes shop. As soon as they stepped out of the fireplace Fred was there, hugging Regulus and lifting him in the air. Fred was making a very quick recovery, but he still had some way to go before he regained all his strength and stocky figure. George came over seconds later and tried to lift both Fred _and_ Regulus with mixed success.

Fred had made tea that evening and he knew he had done it right because he had Angelina’s seal of approval and she was muggleborn. She winked at Harry.

Angelina had reacted extremely well. She and George had been dating for years and began to live together in that apartment just three months ago. Having someone else come so suddenly and invade their space should create some awkwardness and tension, no matter how loved that person was. Angelina loved Fred, though, and was not the kind of girl who got easily embarrassed. She had said right then, the very night George came home crying with his twin in his arms, that she would accept whatever they wanted and whatever they needed. Then she had gone to get fresh sheets for Fred’s bed that had remained mostly intact.

Harry envied her way of making things work.

Fred was talking to Regulus about the woman from the_ Prophet_ while George, who was sitting on Regulus’ other side, talked about _The Quibbler_. It was good that Regulus was pretty smart because Harry had no idea how he kept up with the conversations. Fred lifted his head, as if suddenly assaulted by a thought, and looked straight at Harry. “What about you, Harry? You aren’t looking that well.”

Harry looked down at his plate. He was still amazed that Ron had gone out and gotten pizza from a muggle place, but pizza felt exactly right for this reunion. He explained as briefly as possible, dreading the questions that would inevitably come. He had grown close to Draco, kissed him even, and now he had fucked up and Draco didn’t want to know anything about him.

Harry had expected the chorus of noes, because, well, he had been dating their sister Ginny and now he had turned to a boy _and_ a Slytherin, to bloody Draco Malfoy. He could have said it was nothing rather than explaining his down mood, but it felt wrong, very wrong. If he couldn’t say that he liked Draco here, surrounded by friends, then he really deserved Draco’s contempt.

The cries had a special quality to them. There was sadness and disappointment and shock but there was something missing too. Hate, perhaps.

“But I wanted to meet Fenton!” George exclaimed.

Harry looked at him, bemused, and then at Ron. Ron looked down briefly before quickly looking back at Harry with eyes that were full of support and soft blue.

“Fred says he has a dog and a tattoo,” Ron said. No mention of the past, of the school years, of Draco’s current situation. It was a peace offering, for how badly he had taken the breakup with Ginny and how he had reacted to Hermione leaving. “And he helped a lot, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Harry nodded. Draco had helped a lot and had asked nothing in return.

“Okay. Tell me exactly what you did.” Angelina took a big bite of her pizza and then wiped her hands on a paper towel. She was wearing her hair unbraided these days and she looked like an alternate Hermione, a Hermione with darker skin and really great arms. 

“I see,” she said, after Harry had explained. She was the only one who did. Ron thought it was a magnificent idea and that it showed that Harry really cared, offering to get Draco off the streets and Malfoy was a big idiot for not seeing how nice Harry was. Ron was Ron and Harry had really missed his friend. George and Fred thought Harry should have stressed that the help came with no expectations of reciprocation. Regulus said Harry should just avoid speaking altogether and start cultivating a gruff and silent image.

Angelina had her head in her hands. “Him. Listen to him,” she said, pointing at Regulus.

ooOoo

“What now?” said Draco as he opened the door the next day, his lips curled in an ugly way.

Harry stood there like he had been caught unawares even though he was the one who had returned to Draco’s small bungalow and knocked at his door. He gaped, opening and closing his mouth, eyes fixed on Draco. Draco had a perfectly plain dark blue t-shirt on and his hair was held in a knot with a perfectly common pencil. There was a smudge of pink on his chin.

He was, to Harry, wondrously beautiful. Like a classic god. Like someone who could give you the sword to kill a Gorgon and the sandals to take you to the end of the world. Like someone who would descend in a golden chariot in the middle of battle and take you away.

No one else would see it that way, though. It was just Harry. If pressed, they might admit that the expression in Draco’s eyes was terrible. The kind of expression that could sink twenty ships.

Harry had to look away. He lifted a finger, begging Draco for patience, and rummaged in his pocket until got a paper folded in four. He opened it.

“_Please hear these words,_” Harry read. “_They are the only ones I have._”

He dared a glance at Draco who was looking down at him with the intensity of his namesakes. Harry went back to the paper and didn’t lift his eyes from it.

“_You are very special to me. I don’t know the words to show you the depth of my appreciation and I fear it is not my place anymore to say them. I hurt you. It was never my intention but I did it nonetheless and for that I am truly sorry._”

Harry took a breath there. His hands were trembling and the words were becoming blurry.

“_You have expressed your opinion clearly and I won’t try to change your mind. I hope to earn your forgiveness but if you don’t want to, I won’t ask you to take me back. I swear I won’t. I promise I won’t say another word about that._”

Harry swallowed. His heart was beating in his chest in a way it didn’t during a duel. The last time Harry had been this scared was when he went to the first trial in the Triwizard Championship.

“_And I will make amends. Not because I want your forgiveness and your love. Affection. Love._” Harry lifted his eyes from the paper, hopeless and earnest. “Sorry, it’s scratched out, I don’t know which word I’m supposed to use any more. Err. _I will make amends, not because I want your forgiveness and, um, affection, which I very much do, but because it is right. Because I hurt you and I must erase that hurt. I ask and I beg that you will allow me that, to amend my wrongs and make them right._ It’s, um, it is signed, but I guess that was stupid. Oh, Merlin.”

Draco stood there in silence, his face inscrutable. His eyes were as far away as Harry had ever seen them, farther than when Harry offered him the money, and there was something of gold in them. They were still grey but there was gold shining behind that grey. Harry was sure he wasn’t imagining it.

“Did Regulus help you write that?” he said at last, cold.

Harry fumbled and folded and unfolded the letter. His hands were still trembling. “No, I… He told me to write a letter because he says that I have a troll mouth and shouldn’t be allowed to speak to anyone, for my own sake. I wrote it and he looked it over.”

The silence hung between them. Draco stared at Harry, saying nothing. Harry bit down on his tongue, killing the words that were bursting to come out, new apologies and assurances and regrets that he knew, somehow, would turn into another insult.

Draco lifted one hand slightly, palm up. Harry put the letter there hesitantly, not knowing if he was reading the gesture right. Draco took it and turned around without another word, closing the door behind him.

It wasn’t bad. Harry took another deep breath and dared to smile. He had successfully delivered an apology. Things were looking up.

ooOoo

“Miss Lovegood,” Regulus said, pronouncing the name as if it were a poem or a spell. He put stars in it with his voice.

“I don’t think the formality is necessary.”

“Nevertheless,” said Regulus quickly and brusquely and desperate. He seemed to realise his curtness and he closed his eyes and took a deep, grounding breath. He spoke the rest of his lines with his eyes closed. It was much easier that way. “I hope you will allow me the liberty to proffer you my admiration, as it cannot be contained any longer within the narrow expanse of my chest. I love you, Miss Lovegood. I love you. I realise that I have little to offer: I come to you destitute, with no fortune or family or magic. I come to you with a name of no worth, a name that hardly deserves such consideration. But I come to you begging that you will consider me nonetheless. Just a man hoping that his heart will be enough to account for his lack of parts. A man who will love you no matter what.”

“That was very nice,” said Harry. “You didn’t insult her so you are already doing much better than me. You should try saying it with your eyes open, though.”

Regulus was looking faintly green as if he had just confessed his love to the lady herself. He took another breath, rolled his shoulders back and shook his arms. His shirt had sweat marks on the armpits. He took a glass of water and drank all of it.

“Maybe don’t say you are lacking parts,” added Harry, who was feeling some of Fred’s influence after all this time.

“Merit?” asked Regulus.

“That’s better. But I really think that Luna won’t care about any of that. And you are not destitute. Sirius left me his fortune, that’s yours. And so is the house.”

“No, I— ”

“And you betrayed Voldemort quite nicely so I think you can drop that nonsense about honour and a name of no worth.”

Regulus was still breathing heavily. “One more time?”

“Sure.” Harry went back to his position, hands clasped.

“Miss Lovegood.”

“Mister Black,” Harry answered, curtsying.

ooOoo

They practiced all morning until Regulus was able to say his piece without looking like he had food poisoning. Harry understood his nervousness, but he was also pretty sure that it would go well. Even if Luna rejected him, she would be very kind, and he didn’t think she would reject Regulus.

After lunch a brown and yellow owl arrived to deliver an envelope bearing the official seal of the Minister. In it there was a personal handwritten note from Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt saying that one threat to bring the Ministry to a halt was enough, Harry Potter, and he didn’t need this. Harry didn’t know what Kingsley meant by that, but some of the conversation at dinner last night made him think that it might involve Percy somehow. Kingsley also thanked Harry for the valuable gift of the Demon. They had already been contacted by multiple research institutes and Auror departments from other countries.

There was also a document declaring Regulus Arcturus Black to be a male human wizard of nineteen years of age, signed and sealed by the Minister and a Wizengamot special representative.

Regulus was actually eighteen when he died, but since he had died in May, his birthday was in June and he had been reborn in November it didn’t feel like such a big mistake. His next birthday he would turn twenty which was a very nice round number.

Harry placed the document in the safe in the library and made Regulus a copy that he could put in his breast pocket. Harry had also drafted and signed a quick letter saying that Regulus rightfully owned the house and the fortune associated with it, but Regulus refused to take it. He said that he hated, hated, hated the place and only tolerated it because of the changes Harry had made. He wasn’t even staying in his old bedroom.

Harry waited with him on the street for the Knight Bus. He hugged Regulus and he waved once he had climbed inside the bus. There was a strong wind and it was cold and both of them were grinning as if it were the nicest summer day of the year instead of a cold winter evening, two fools in love.

ooOoo

Harry thought he hadn’t made much noise apparating, but he still saw the curtains of the house next to Draco’s (the one painted in pink) move apart so someone could take a peek. They remained like that the whole time he was there.

The next steps were already familiar. Go to the dark green door, ring, hear Fenton barking, wait. He and Regulus had held a debate about the correct time to call on someone on a Saturday morning, both understanding that Saturdays were for leisure and sleeping late. They had ended up calling George and Fred and Angelina’s place and Angelina had confirmed that yes, eight was a bit too early and so was nine and even ten. Ten-thirty was much better. Eleven was best.

It was five minutes to eleven. Harry moved his hand through his hair, hoping that would do something. Draco wasn’t opening the door. Harry’s hand were starting to sweat with nerves and he was afraid of ruining the paper wrapping the gift.

“Move aside, will you?”

Harry jumped, startled. Draco was standing behind him, two plastic bags in each hand and in full muggle attire. Jeans, shoes, old green sweater. His coat was still too thin, had always been, but it meant something different if Draco had to walk down to a muggle town rather than apparate to his destination.

“Can I help?” Harry pointed at the bags as he stepped aside, leaving the way to the door clear.

“No.” Draco put some of the bags down and fished the keys from his pocket. Fenton was right by the door and he greeted Draco by getting in the way and wagging his tail a lot. He also put his head inside one of the bags. Draco pushed him aside with his leg so he could get the groceries inside. Fenton noticed Harry then and went to greet him too.

Harry moved the package to his hip so he could free a hand and pet his head. Fenton’s ears remained unbearably adorable.

“Did you want something?” Draco said. He was back at the door, arms crossed, but then he uncrossed them and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

“Err,” Harry began. “I just came to give you this. It’s not, it’s not that great. I mean. This doesn’t make up for it, but I thought you would like it.”

He handed Draco the package. Glossy black paper with tiny gold letters. “It’s a teapot,” he added, because it was heavy and delicate and he didn’t want Draco to drop it. He should have just said it was heavy and not what the package contained.

“Your favourite colour.” Harry just couldn’t stop blabbering. He should come to these things with someone who could slap him anytime he spoke too much. “Not sure about the shape, though.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. He had bent his leg slightly so he could rest the box on his thigh. He was holding it with both hands.

“Oh? And what is my favourite colour?” he asked from across a wall of ice.

“Magenta,” Harry answered quickly, because he was sure for once. He was _sure_.

Draco gave him a long look, eyes sharp and penetrating as they always were when he was thinking hard about something.

“Why.”

Harry opened his mouth and hesitated. “I don’t know. Because it is bright? And warm? It’s a very nice colour,” he assured him.

Draco looked at the ceiling and hitched the box higher on his hip. “Why do you think I like that colour.”

“Oh!” Harry smiled, they were back to easy terrain and things he knew. “Because it’s on Fenton. His collar,” he clarified. “Black with magenta lines.”

Draco looked very unimpressed, but Harry knew he was right so he pressed forward. “You wear the things you like with you, so it makes sense that you would put the things you like on your dog too, like the colour of his collar. If the collar wasn’t important it wouldn’t be on your tattoo, either, but it’s there because it’s Fenton not any other dog and it is magenta.

Again another look. This time Draco wasn’t able to completely hide that he was impressed.

“All right,” he said, retreating into the house. “Thanks,” he added tersely as he kicked the door closed.

ooOoo

Regulus was still gone when Harry returned, not that Harry expected him to come back any time soon because his visit to Luna yesterday had gone splendidly. Luna had been surprised by Regulus’ declaration but she had welcomed it, just like Harry thought she would because Harry was observant and a very good detective when it wasn’t about himself. Regulus said, blushing, that they had walked with the thestrals holding hands and kissed before parting.

The library was the only good room in the house now, even more so since Harry had moved his painting there, so that’s where he retreated. The big desk was still covered with papers and books about death and resurrection which Harry began to move aside to make a bit of space before giving up and switching to the small desk by the window, the one with all the drawers. He sat there and wrote a letter to Hermione telling her everything. Even as he was writing it he found himself taking notes on a separate sheet. Harry was only now beginning to realise how in depth and extensive his research into death had been and he thought he should at least write a small guide. Someone somewhere in the future might find themselves hosting a recently resurrected friend and they would surely appreciate having Harry’s notes. He already had two pages on food alone.

But that would be for later. There were more letters to attend to. One of them included a cake from Mrs Weasley and a compulsory invitation to lunch at the Burrow the next day.

Harry had a bad idea and was happy to report that he stopped himself from acting on it. If Draco was buying at muggle stores then he must be changing galleons, knuts and sickles into pounds. Harry could talk to his teller at Gringotts and make sure Draco got the best exchange rate possible, even add something to his account surreptitiously. He could, but he wouldn’t be able to stop Draco from learning about it and Draco would be very angry.

So Harry didn’t.

He still thought about how Draco was paying for his groceries, about how cheap his house looked, about his clothes. If Harry could be certain that Draco would take it, rather than bashing Harry’s face with it, he would give him ten thousand galleons and live with his wrath. Harry could take Draco’s hate and anger if it meant that Draco would have the means to support himself and wouldn’t have to resort to selling himself.

But Draco wasn’t taking Harry’s money.

Maybe Harry could buy him another teapot, one that was encrusted with jewels so Draco could sell it if he wanted to.

Harry sent his response to Mrs Weasley with Aeneas and grabbed the rest of the letters to post them in Diagon Alley, except Hermione’s which would go through muggle mail. He was _not_ buying a jewel-encrusted teapot for Draco. Not yet at least.

But just in case he went and got Ron to accompany him so he could stop Harry if he turned crazy.

ooOoo

Regulus arrived that evening with mud on his feet and knees and even his back, somehow. He also had a huge grin and a bandage on two of his fingers.

Apparently there was plenty to do on a farm, even in early of winter. Lots of stuff that could be done without magic or was actually done without magic, like inspecting the hooves of the thestrals.

The thestrals, it turned out, liked Regulus even more than they liked Luna. Luna was okay with it because Luna wasn’t really able to feel jealousy, unlike Harry, who was burning inside thinking of all the undeserving people who had ever touched Draco. People who wouldn’t even appreciate the softness of Draco’s skin, the shine of his hair, the glorious line of his neck or the sharp quality of his lips. Kissing Draco was kissing wit.

But that was done and in the past and if Harry had learned anything from all those books about trauma, besides the fact that one should ask for help, was that one had to accept and acknowledge the past and focus on the future. Harry wanted a future in which no one touched Draco unless Draco wanted it. Ideally, a future in which Harry got to touch Draco but he would settle with no one buying him.

“I really like being outside,” Regulus said, flopping down on the blue backless chair. He lay there like a puppet with cut strings, long legs on one side, head and one arm hanging loose on the other. “I didn’t know that I liked it so much. I never noticed, at Hogwarts.”

“Had fun then?”

“I fixed part of the fence and my hand is sore from handling the tools wrong.” Regulus lifted the hand with the bandages to show him. “And I looked at so many hooves and put this green oozy thing in them. It smelled really strong.”

It was really something, hearing Regulus speak like that. The Perfect Son, Sirius had called him. Harry had gotten rid of the portrait of Druella years ago, almost sending Kreacher to an early grave with that, but after a couple of weeks the house elf had perked up and looked much better without his old mistress there to scream. Harry was glad he had done it but he also wished he could see what would happen if the portrait heard Regulus speak like this. Self-combustion, probably.

“I am beat,” Regulus went on. “And sore. And smelly. And I really liked it, Harry. I like being outside. I like it even when it’s cold and raining. I just need a wool scarf and socks.”

“You can stay outside as much as you want,” Harry said. That was another thing about learning to live a life with all the damage of the past. Sometimes you had to say aloud what you were allowed to do. “We will get you better clothes, warm and sturdy.”

“Boots,” Regulus said. His hair was almost touching the floor. “And a sweater.”

Harry felt something inside himself relax. He didn’t know if it was his stomach, his lungs or his heart because it was all one big knot of anxiety and confusion and pain, but seeing Regulus like this, so honestly happy, it helped loosen the tension. This was good. Harry had done a good thing. Regulus was happy, perhaps happier than he had ever been in his life.

“How were things with Draco?” Regulus asked. His hair was definitely touching the floor now. He might end up sliding and falling off the seat and onto his head.

“I gave him the teapot and he didn’t throw it at my head. He even said thanks.”

“Mmh. That’s good,” Regulus answered. “Are you going to keep giving him stuff?”

Harry made an affirmative sound. “Until he says to stop or he forgives me,” he said.

Regulus ended up falling on his head, but he twisted his neck so he could also rest his shoulders on the floor. This young man was a Death Eater once.

“I’m going to build Luna a proper house. One without draughts. Her cottage is cold and has air draughts. The house will be warm and have many rooms. Muggles do it.”

“Muggles who know what they are doing. Why don’t you just focus on helping her with the farm and pay someone else to do it? That way it would be finished quicker.”

“That’s actually very wise. I don’t know how you can be such a trollhead with Draco.”

“Me neither,” answered Harry. He really didn’t.

ooOoo

Sunday was bright and free of clouds and very cold. It had rained during the night and the ground was still wet. It looked very pretty, but deceptively so. It was far colder than it looked; not a good day to go out for a walk.

Fenton was looking out the window, nose pressed against the glass pane. The moment he saw Harry he barked and began to wag his tail, so by the time Harry had reached the door Draco was already there.

There was a speck of gold near his left ear and Harry felt his stomach roll. Saturday night, of course, would be just the night for… company. Company requiring extravagant make-up use.

Harry had put a bag of fifty galleons in Draco’s hands and if only he weren’t such an idiot Draco would have walked away with at least that, fair payment for his help with Regulus and Fred.

“Did you tell them to print that?” asked Draco bluntly. He was pissed off and frowning, but he didn’t look angry, just simmering, undecided whether he should boil over and be angry or let it pour out gently.

“I… did what?”

Draco disappeared from the door but left it open. Harry took the opportunity to have a peek from the doorstep. The entrance led into a small square space that opened to the side into what Harry supposed was the living and dining room. Fenton’s leash hung from a hook in the wall, near a shelf with a bowl for keys. Draco’s coat was hanging next to it and under it was the leather satchel he carried around.

What little Harry could see of the living room was much more interesting. The room looked full of stuff without being crammed and difficult to move around in. A delicate balance between the small size of the bungalow and Fenton’s presence. No pile of stuff would survive long with the dog around. Harry could see just part of one wall and a bit of a table from where he stood. He counted at least seven photographs or paintings hanging from the wall, four books on the table plus two notebooks.

And colour, so much colour. He didn’t know how Draco had endured his stay at Grimmauld Place because—with the exception of the library—the rest of the house was dark grey, dark blue and off-putting white. The white in Draco’s house wasn’t off-putting or sad, it was a base to allow the colours to shine without competing with each other. It had the same elegance, the same artful purpose and measure as Draco’s tattoo.

Harry wished he could see more but Draco was returning and the moment he entered Harry’s field of vision he captured all of Harry’s attention. He had a folded-open magazine with him. _The Quibbler_, most likely, since it came on Sundays. Harry had only glanced at the cover which announced a tell-all about Aetius Quinn and the dark machinations in the Department of Mysteries.

“This,” Draco said, showing Harry a full-page photo of Draco. DRACO MALFOY it read, in all white capitals, and underneath, _Slytherin Scholar and Hero_. “Did you tell them to print this?”

“No,” Harry said, because it was the truth. And then, because he really couldn’t shut up. “I got a letter from _The Quibbler_ asking what happened and I explained some of it. I am much better with letters, I don’t put my foot in my mouth so much.”

Draco turned the page and read, “_the astute Slytherin was the first to realise that something didn’t add up in the Quinn case. He decided to investigate further at great personal risk_.”

“It’s true,” said Harry. He didn’t see any problem other than that it was an old picture of Draco.

Draco sighed heavily. “The_ Prophet_ wants an interview now.”

Well, of course. They had gotten the scoop by virtue of being printed daily, but _The Quibbler_ had gotten the story straight and right; it wasn’t the first time that had happened. These days _The Quibbler_ was actually a reputable source of well-put _credible_ investigations.

“I could give them one?” Harry suggested. “That woman, Marlowe, she was knocking at the door for over an hour. I could tell them I will talk to them if they leave you alone. If that’s something that you want.”

Draco looked at Harry over the magazine. “No. It’s fine,” he said, and then, as if an afterthought, “You talking to journalists isn’t a good idea.”

Harry snorted. “Very true. I brought you this,” he added humbly. Draco looked down almost surprised that Harry had any purpose for coming over other than answering his questions. “Tea. For the teapot.”

A brown-gold luxury box with a glass lid that showed it contained twelve different blends. Ron had patiently smelled and tasted over twenty different blends of tea with Harry until they got the perfect assortment. They had great names, too. “Orange Burst” and “Wild Lotus” and “Jasmine Dragon.”

“Not sure what my favourite blend is?” Draco asked, but there was hardly any sting to it.

“I don’t know. Is it red? Red seems less bitter than black but has more body than green.”

Draco blinked at Harry and said nothing. He put the magazine on top of the tea box and took it inside. He did say “thanks” and “bye” before pushing the door closed

ooOoo

Harry hadn’t expected a nice, light reunion at the Burrow because Fred’s return was still very recent, but he still thought that it would be less tense and emotional than when he had gone to tell Mrs and Mr Weasley. They had all gone to sleep and woken up in a world that had their brother and son back. They had seen it was not a dream. They had certainty. That was more than what Harry had for weeks. He had only had his resolution to keep trying.

It was tense and emotional anyway.

Many people had gathered around. The whole family was there, except Charlie who was still making travel arrangements and would arrive tomorrow night at the earliest; plus beloved friends, spouses and girlfriends and the one boyfriend plus Aunt Muriel. Harry still thought there was no reason to cry so much. Maybe later, as the evening progressed and they sipped tiny glasses of sherry, they could cry then, but not now.

Everybody was crying. Mrs Weasley had given a hand-knitted sweater to Regulus (Harry didn’t know how she had gotten it done so fast) and Regulus had gotten all flustered and begun to cry. Mr Weasley had cried at Harry and Harry had no idea what to do while his only remaining vaguely paternal figure cried on his shoulder like a baby. Lee Jordan was there, sobbing intermittently and getting along famously with everyone.

Percy, being the most rational and self-composed member of the family, had discreetly made his exit and gone to sit in the broom shed where it was quiet. He missed most of dinner but he had had such an overwhelmed look about him that no one could blame him. Oliver Wood had brought him a plate of food and stayed with him for a while, so he was okay.

This Harry knew because he also had to duck out to the broom shed for a minute, both to gather himself and to get away from Ginny who still couldn’t believe she had been one of the last siblings to learn about Fred.

“She will forgive you,” Percy said. He had a dish with dessert balanced on his knees and he was working methodically on demolishing Mrs Weasley’s crumble pie. “She is not that angry. Ginny just gets overwhelmed by her emotions.”

“She just cast a hex at me,” Harry said, taking a seat. “Fred tried to explain that _he _asked_ me_ not to tell and she tried to hex him too.”

Percy waved his fork as if that proved his point somehow. It was true, though. Ginny had a bright fire that made her very attractive. She was passion and energy and sometimes that passion went over the brim and overflowed her. That’s why she liked Quidditch so much, it gave her something to focus on, a way out for all the raw fire burning inside.

They might not have worked as a couple, but Harry still loved and admired her.

How funny, though, that he could have such similar feelings for different people. Draco was all ice and water and restraint and he made Harry’s heart beat like nothing else. Like no one else.

Percy was looking at the wrist of his own right hand, that little narrow area between one flat side and the other.

“I keep thinking that I imagined it all,” he said. “That I finally cracked and imagined that Fred was back.”

Harry thought that Percy was not the only one with those thoughts, just the one most scared by them.

“I asked Fred to write his name here, so I could see it, with his handwriting, any time.” He moved his hand so Harry could see. “He drew a firecracker.”

“It is very much like the real Fred,” Harry said, “and at least he didn’t draw a pile of poo or a farting arse.”

Percy laughed at that and Harry thought that it was the first time he had heard Percy laugh since probably his second or third year at Hogwarts. Percy put the dish with dessert on the floor. “I was planning on having it tattooed so I’m glad he didn’t.”

Look at that, straight-laced Percy speaking of tattoos. Somehow, it didn’t surprise Harry as much as it ought to. It wasn’t exactly a fang pendant like Bill, but Percy had a very interesting ring on his left hand. You didn’t get that kind of ring with the dull life of a bureaucrat. Well you could, but you would also have to be a sixth generation London goblin. Either Percy had done something to merit being adopted by the London goblin clan (hard to imagine) or he had won it in a game of qop at Zigsx’ gambling house (equally hard to imagine). A tattoo was almost quaint. 

“I hear Malfoy has many tattoos on his arm,” Percy said as he got up.

Harry nodded. “Yes, from the wrist up to the shoulder.”

Percy was shaking crumbs off his clothes. “There must be a lot he wants to remember.”

With that Percy left to go wash the dishes and Harry returned to the living room where Regulus was being interrogated about popular pranks and spells in his time. Harry was pretty sure that about half of what Regulus was saying was utter bullshit. That one charm sounded like it would affect the caster, too. Harry thought he should say something, but he wasn’t about to pass up the possibility of both George and Lee sprouting feathers out of their ears.

ooOoo

“What is this, the Twelve Days of Christmas?”

Harry stopped, mouth hanging open, and seemed to consider it.

“Where would you even put all those birds?” he asked, looking at the tiny strip of green in front of the house. There was a small garden behind, of course, but it could hardly hold twelve drummers drumming.

For a second Draco looked amused, like he did whenever Harry did something he wasn’t supposed to do, like enjoying satirical cartoons making fun of him and drinking tea the wrong way.

“It’s nothing as grand,” Harry continued humbly, as if ashamed that he hadn’t showered Draco with birds and pear trees and lords a-leaping. “They are tree ornaments.”

He presented the box wrapped in purple and gold. “I thought… I don’t know, they are completely superfluous but I like them. My favourite is the bird that turns into a ship. There is a snitch. I thought you would like that one.”

Hesitantly, Draco took the box from Harry’s hands. His disbelieving stare was familiar. Harry didn’t say he had gotten Ron to make one of a cloud that turned into a dragon and a star that became a cornetto. He was finally learning to put a stop to his words.

Fred had insisted on going to the muggle town near the Burrow and buying some cornettos for Ron to use as model. Then he and George and Regulus had eaten them. There was a big disagreement on how good they were and which one was best.

But Draco probably wasn’t interested in any of that. He was dressed to go out. Simple trousers and a dark green robe on top. Nothing fancy except for how the simplicity of the attire emphasized the elegant lines of Draco’s body.

Harry was about to make a mistake. He could feel it. He was going to say something or do something. Probably beg Draco not to go.

“All right, I won’t bother you anymore. Sorry. Goodbye,” Harry said in a rush. He disapparated right away, right from Draco’s doorstep, and arrived to the steps before Grimmauld Place panting and sweating and relieved that he had managed not to say anything stupid.

ooOoo

That evening Harry went to Luna’s place. He had to leave the house through the bathroom window because the backdoor was still stuck, as it had always been, and the journalist lady from the _Prophet_ was stalking the front door and Harry was certain he couldn’t deal with her. Half a dozen Ministry officials, yes, no problem there, Harry could deal with them. But a journalist? Merlin’s arse, no. And not just any journalist but Rita Skeeter’s successor in spirit and spite. She would take Harry’s words and twist them, she would take Harry’s _silences_ as meaningful agreement, and tomorrow morning the _Prophet_ would publish that Harry was running for Head of the Department of Mysteries and that Draco had slipped him a love-potion.

Bathroom window it was.

Luna’s moon radish stew was so unusual in flavour, texture and colour that Harry couldn’t tell if it was good or bad, just different. Regulus’ omelette was merely adequate. There were some eggshell bits in it, but that was nothing in the face of Regulus’ satisfied grin.

After dinner Harry went to Kreacher’s grave. Someone had put a bouquet of holly and rosehips on the stone, winter vegetation, better fitting than any flower.

“It’s a nice place,” Regulus said, coming to stand next to Harry.

Harry nodded. The air was crisp and cold and clean, the kind of air that blew corruption away. Harry searched in his pocket and got a charred, blackened chain of half-melted links and a blob of something that might have been a silver locket once. He lay it carefully next to the bouquet. Regulus looked at it in silence; there was a strange mixture of maturity and youth in his eyes.

“Luna says to ask if you want hibiscus blackberry tea,” he said at last, voice as calm and clean as the cold air around them. “I had it yesterday and don’t recommend it.”

Harry smiled. “I will have anything lemon,” he said, and then added, “I have tried five lemon-things so far and none of them tasted remotely like a lemon or even something citrus-y. There was one that had pineapple, but that was it.”

Regulus laughed and then sighed with the fondness of those unbearably in love. They began walking slowly to the cottage.

“That reminds me, Draco is a hard no on ten drummers, but I think he won’t be opposed to a pear tree.”

“What?”

“No drummers, Harry.”

“Nononono. I mean, when did you— ?”

Apparently Draco had been there earlier, right there, and neither Regulus nor Luna had mentioned it. Harry couldn’t understand it because Harry rightly believed that everyone should be as obsessed with Draco as he was, given Draco’s multiple virtues and talents. But Luna hardly thought anything of it (why shouldn’t her cousin drop by?) and Regulus thought only of Luna.

“So he came here,” pressed Harry because any mention of Draco was like a gulp of fresh water after a night of fever.

Merlin, he had it bad.

“Oh, yes. He doesn’t have an owl, you know, so he came in person to return Luna her basket and say thank you for the cake.”

Draco had also asked Luna to please not send Sevila again because she drew muggle attention. She also drew wizards’ attention because she was a purple vulture after all, but Draco didn’t care about that. It was the muggles’ attention. Draco really couldn’t afford the fines for Undue Muggle Attention.

Something inside Harry clenched tight. Draco couldn’t afford the fines and Draco wouldn’t take Harry’s money. Perhaps Harry could buy all the houses on the street. Then it wouldn’t be a muggle district. It seemed like a plan, a wonderful neat plan, so maybe Harry should run it by Angelina first. The Fenton Fund for Owners of Great Dogs had also seemed like a great idea, Ron was totally on board, Fred had already designed the badge and crest, and then Angelina had said no and instituted a rule that nothing that Harry came up with after one a.m. could be considered sensible.

“He wouldn’t say anything about you at first,” Regulus continued because Regulus understood the agony of wanting to know more, know everything. Harry wanted to ask if Draco had been dressed adequately and if he looked cold, but he didn’t want to interrupt. “And then Luna offered him a cup of tea and he blurted that you were going to give him ten drummers drumming and twelve ladies dancing. Fred would appreciate the drummers,” Regulus confided, as if wanting to reassure Harry that ten drummers were a perfectly nice and sensible gift and it was only a matter of preference that Draco didn’t want some. “But Draco seemed quite opposed to it.”

Harry nodded. “And?”

“And then he crossed his arms and said that you are impossible.”

Harry nodded. Impossible wasn’t a bad thing.

“So Luna said that of course you were impossible and hadn’t Draco seen your scar? You were killed twice. And Draco said he didn’t mean that. I didn’t get the rest because the water was boiling and Luna asked me to get some leaves of deadnettle and when I returned they were arguing about strawberries.”

“What’s Draco’s position on strawberries?” asked Harry, vaguely aware that he was ridiculous. He nevertheless wanted to know what Draco thought about them.

“They are tart, not sweet,” answered Regulus quickly. Regulus was really supportive. “Luna concurs about the sweetness, but believes they are sour. She is right of course.”

Maybe Regulus was as hopeless and ridiculous as Harry.

“Anyway, they talked a lot about fruit and the point is that he wouldn’t be opposed to a pear tree,” Regulus said.

“Of course he wouldn’t, don’t think I don’t know, but it can’t be any kind, it should be one giving sweet pears. I was going to write Neville asking for advice.”

He did just that when he returned to Grimmauld Place later that night and added some questions about plum trees because Regulus thought he might give Luna one. Then they indulged each other sharing every little detail they could remember. Regulus described Draco’s attire thrice and explained how exactly he had pronounced Harry “impossible” down to the intonation and pitch, which helped a lot to drown out Regulus’ admission that Draco did have a smudge of red in the corner of his jaw. Harry recounted Luna’s part at the battle of Hogwarts. To Regulus’ frustration, Harry couldn’t say whether Luna had stunned Alecto Carrow with a solemn countenance or with the tranquil composure born of effortlessness. Harry wasn’t sure what the difference was.

ooOoo

The next day was grey and cold. Regulus was back at Luna’s place, although today was slightly different because he had gone with Fred. Fred might not have the same feelings towards Luna, but he had grown very fond of her.

Harry wondered if they missed Draco too, and were saying nothing to spare him. He might tell Draco anyway, because he thought Draco had also grown to like them and he should see them if he wanted.

Harry had the impression that Draco was lonely. Not because anything about Draco suggested that, he seemed perfectly happy, but because the after-war world was a lonely one. Even if they had shared the same experience, the same horror, they all dealt with it in different ways and they had all run from it their own ways. Ron had left the Aurors, Harry too, Hermione was in Munich, Neville somewhere in the Pacific fighting poachers, Luna in a cottage on the moors.

It_ was_ lonely.

So was Grimmauld Place, and Harry thought that if he stayed there he would begin to think about Draco again and the traces of make-up he had on yesterday and the clothes he was wearing today and Harry would go crazy.

The clothes.

Harry went to Diagon Alley to buy Draco a coat. A good one that would keep him warm and dry and that could be cleaned easily because Draco appeared to pick the muddiest places to take Fenton for a walk. He thought about going to muggle London because Draco did seem to prefer muggle clothes now, or neutral ones, but in the end Harry went to Diagon Alley and got something in dark green with a hood charmed to keep the wearer dry. He wasn’t sure about the size, but the assistant gave him a receipt so it could be exchanged.

He was thinking about maybe going to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes to visit Ron (George had gone with Fred to Luna’s, of course), and then looking around the shops so he would know where to go when he brought Regulus to buy some outdoor apparel. And then the whole world came to a stop because twenty steps in front of Harry, coming from the opposite direction, was Draco. Draco in wizarding robes and his stupid, insufficient coat and the leather satchel with whatever he carried in there.

Harry had seen him every day since the fight, and every day before that, too, but this was different. This was Draco in the street. This was Draco surrounded by people who were glancing and pointing and whispering to each other. But Harry wasn’t paying attention to them. He wasn’t even paying attention to himself. He had stopped right where he stood, without noticing. Draco had that effect on him.

“Hello,” he said, when Draco came closer.

Draco blinked and stopped and it was only then that Harry realised that Draco had expected Harry to do something else. Perhaps simply nod at him and keep walking or maybe pretend he hadn’t seen Draco at all.

Harry’s ears popped. He hadn’t realised that he had also stopped listening to his surroundings the moment he had seen Draco. But now he did and the sound was rushing to him, the hum of people coming and going, the voices.

He heard the word “hero” followed by the word “whore.”

“It’s good to see you,” said Harry, perhaps a bit louder than necessary.

“You too,” Draco replied with a hint of surprise.

And then, and then! Oh! Harry couldn’t deal. Harry wasn’t a social being, all right? He had literally grown up in a closet under the stairs. He was not made for polite society. Not like Draco who knew how to stay cool and indifferent and polite at all times.

Someone pushed Draco aside and touched Harry’s elbow to get his attention. Harry was vaguely aware that he knew the man. Young but already looking middle-aged, with a bland face, blond and blue-eyed in the most insubstantial way. Had something to do with the Ministry but didn’t work there. A provider of something.

“Mister Potter, may I…?” the idiot began to say.

“I’m talking to Mister Malfoy, if you don’t mind,” replied Harry in the coldest and most hateful tone he could conjure. And then, because he caught the contemptuous expression and the look the man threw at Draco, Harry said, “And even if you do.”

He stepped closer to Draco and looked straight at him, decidedly ignoring the man. “How are you?”

Draco was covering his mouth with his hand. There was mirth in his eyes. “Fine,” he said simply.

That man, that absolute moron, that chin-less boiled egg of a man was still hovering near them. “Step back,” Harry said, with a predatory look. The look of the leopard. “No, more. More. I will tell you when.”

When the wet mop of a man was twenty steps away he realised that Harry had no intention of telling him to stop and indeed was going to keep him walking backwards until he went out of sight. He made a small gesture of irritation that reminded Harry of Vernon Dursley and then turned around and left in a huff.

Draco looked amused and very pretty. He had such a pretty face. His eyes had all the best of winter in them.

“That was very rude,” he said with a smile.

“Yes. I can’t believe the nerve of some people.”

“I meant you!” Draco laughed. The clouds parted, the sun shone and flowers sprouted between the cobblestones of the street. Harry was sure that he was now four centimetres taller.

“Can I invite you to, um, a drink?” Harry said hopefully. This wasn’t part of the plan. The plan was going to Draco and apologising there at his threshold and giving him things until the wound was healed and closed. This was different. This was Draco standing in the middle of Diagon Alley and Harry inviting him in a very social and public space. But Draco had pursed his lips as if somehow this act were impressive and a gift in another form. Harry didn’t know. He would have to ask someone later.

“I can’t. I have an appointment right now,” Draco said and then he looked straight at Harry as if curious to what he would say next.

“Oh. Um. I can wait,” Harry said, even though what he really wanted to say was that it was Tuesday. Tuesday morning. This was not the time to request Draco’s company, and yes, Harry was aware he had done just that but he meant for a drink. What kind of lecherous pervert made an appointment on a Tuesday morning? Didn’t that person work?

“I don’t know how long it will be. It’s usually an hour, but…”

The sun was gone, the clouds dark grey, there were no flowers and Harry was the height of five-year-old child. Harry wanted to drown himself. He also wanted, above all, not to put that hurt expression back on Draco’s face.

“I really don’t mind,” he said, and he meant it. He would stand in the rain for hours if afterwards Draco would sit with Harry and talk to him.

Draco hesitated just for a second. “All right, then. I will find you in that goblin place.” He pointed down the street to a bar and café with a brightly-coloured storefront.

“See you then,” Harry said, still not believing his luck. Draco walked away, with the same elegant, quick stride he had when Harry found him and took him home. Now he understood why Draco had been so aggressive, why he had fought so viciously, and it made Harry’s stomach sick. What must Draco have thought? He must have been so scared.

ooOoo

Draco arrived two-and-half hours later. In that time Harry had had two cups of tea and a confrontation with some clients who were being rude to the waiter.

“Save my spot,” Harry had said to the young goblin. He thought he might be the son of the owner. “I’m waiting for someone.”

The wizards who were brazenly calling the waiter “hook ears” and “horned” had complained that Harry intervening wasn’t fair because how could they possibly duel Auror Potter? It was abuse of power, that was, what with him knowing all kind of spells and hexes. Harry had had no other option but to tell them they were right and put his wand in his pocket before proceeding to punch them both in the face. Then he had put one over his shoulder, grabbed the other by the ear, and dragged them out of the bar and quite a few steps down the street. He hadn’t wanted to release them right outside the bar because Harry knew then they would throw a stone through the window before running.

When Harry returned, his place was still there. When Draco finally arrived and took a seat in front of him they were silently served a plate of hot chokies, compliments of the house.

“Your knuckles are red,” noted Draco. “And swollen.” His eyes searched Harry’s. There was that curiosity that was Draco’s downfall. That need to know and understand even if he would later judge and mock.

“I punched someone in the face,” Harry said plainly, and Draco chortled a surprised laugh.

“Of course you did.”

“He said it wasn’t right for me to hex him.”

“Ah,” Draco nodded, amused. “He should have said ‘fight.’ It is much more open-ended.”

Harry raised his hands to say that was his point exactly. His heart was beating fast because this was pretty similar to what he had had with Draco before, that odd rhythm they had built of saying truths disguised as irony.

The waiter came and asked if they wanted to order anything else and Draco said he hadn’t had lunch yet. Harry’s heart did a strange leap and clenched down at the thought that Draco was hungry. The double significance that he had no money to support himself and also that he must be extra hungry from all the recent exertion.

Draco said he wanted separate checks and then looked at Harry, daring him to argue. Harry conceded and focussed on what he had, Draco’s attention and company for the duration of the sandwich generously loaded with chips on the side. Perhaps Draco had insisted on paying his part because then he would be staying on his own and not because Harry was buying him lunch. That was a nice hopeful thought to have.

“What’s that?” asked Draco, pointing delicately at the big bag and the package peeking out of it.

“I will tell you tomorrow,” Harry said, feeling oddly confident for once. Draco had sat down with him to eat of his own volition. “This is not the Twelve Days of Christmas, it’s The As Many Days As It Takes To Properly Offer Reparation For What I Ruined.”

Draco took a bite of his sandwich (ham and mustard) and chewed slowly. “_Ruined_ is a very strong word,” he said at last, softly.

“It’s how it felt.”

An awkward silence fell between them. It seemed that Draco wasn’t sure what to say. He was looking at his glass of water sadly.

“Is the _Prophet_ still asking for an interview?” asked Harry, just to fill the silence with something. It worked. Draco perked up and rolled his eyes, quickly swallowing the last bite.

“Incessantly.”

The air between them was still awkward and strange when they parted, full of hesitation and calculated steps, but it didn’t have that anger so cold that it burned. It was just awkward and warm, and when Harry said, “See you tomorrow,” Draco gave him an acknowledging nod that was everything, _everything_.

ooOoo

“What!” exclaimed Harry, the moment he apparated in the little street of Haverhill, all senses of alarm rising.

Draco too had startled when he heard the crack of apparition, turning on his heels and raising his wand. The moment he saw it was Harry he lowered it quickly, though. Then he put a strand of hair behind his ear and turned back to his work on the wall.

“Draco, are you all right?” Harry said, hurriedly closing the distance between them. He was acting like an Auror, ensuring the safety of civilians, assuming a threat was still present until the place had been cleared and checking for muggle bystanders. He casted _maledictum revelio_ to check for active curses and _repello muggletum_ to ensure the neighbours wouldn’t peer out of their windows, but he saw the _repello_ was already active. His heart was beating fast, his stomach clenched in a familiar knot of anxiety.

Draco, however, was extremely nonchalant. “It’s just paint,” he said.

Just paint in glass jars thrown against the walls of the house. Someone had written “blood traitor” in huge yellow letters on the ground. The dark green door had the word “whore” on it.

Draco was calmly washing the paint away with his wand.

Since Draco refused to be affected, or appear to be affected, Harry dealt with his indignation and fright by checking the perimeter around the house for curses and hexes. There was a tall wooden fence behind the house that surrounded a little backyard. Someone had written the word “cocksuckc” on it. They had run out of paint before they could make the “er.”

Harry erased it, but it left behind a light mark on the wood and the letters could still be read. He had to try two more times before he got the whole area to be the same colour.

Draco was working calmly and methodically. Harry stood by his side and began to work on the front of the house. Fenton barked at them until Harry touched the window pane in greeting and Draco told Fenton to stand down. Then they went back to work.

The silence was unbearable.

“You have to report this,” said Harry. All the vanishing of blood and other fluids he had done lately was turning out to be good practice. “It was obviously wizards. It says _blood traitor_.”

Draco glanced at him and then began to clean off the offending word. He was much better at it than Harry. He worked slowly but didn’t leave any traces behind.

“There is no point,” he said, sounding unfairly calm and blasé.

“Of course there is!” argued Harry. “This is wrong, Draco, you can’t let th— ”

“Did you find any curses?” Draco interrupted. The _b_ and _l_ were gone already.

Harry assured him there were no curses or hexes or anything to be concerned about and he had already taken care of the graffiti in the back.

“Then I can’t call the Aurors, can I?” he looked at Harry with eyes made of broken ice. “What it was you said about the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol?”

That they couldn’t find their own asses with both hands and a fart. That’s what Harry had said. But if there was no sign or suspicion of dark arts, the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol was the one that intervened. At best they would be the picture of ineptitude. Most likely they would also insult Draco.

“It isn’t right,” Harry said, turning back to the wall.

Draco shrugged. The “blood traitor” was completely gone. He sidestepped Harry and began to work on the door. Harry would have done it. The word hurt him whenever he looked at it, like a hot knife twisting in his guts. But he was afraid of ruining the door in the process. He was overdoing it a bit in some spots, removing both the offending paint and the one underneath.

Overall it took a bit more than an hour, but they got the house nice and clean. Absolutely no trace of paint left behind.

Harry was still overwhelmed by the need to murder someone.

“It’s cold. Do you want some tea?”

Harry gaped at Draco and didn’t speak, merely nodded his head enthusiastically. He went to pick up the package he had dropped at the spot where he apparated and then followed Draco inside. Draco had used those few seconds to move some things out of view. He was lowering his wand after blurring a couple of the images hanging on the wall just as Harry entered the living room.

Harry was curious, of course, but he didn’t mind because he was there and it was glorious. There were more than two dozen pictures which shouldn’t surprise him because it was obvious that Draco was very visual. Each one told him a bit more about Draco. There was a moving photo of Draco and the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team, at least one picture of Fenton on each of the walls, a watercolour of a picturesque village near the sea.

Fenton came running to greet Harry and then he left just as fast to oversee the tea-making process in the kitchen.

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, and immediately wished he had said nothing. Draco was using the teapot Harry had given him.

“Any preference?” asked Draco, pointing at the tea box. The box of crystal ornaments was on a chair in the living room, but the tea box was in the kitchen with signs of use.

“I liked the one called something red and Asian,” said Harry.

Draco looked in the box. “_Indian Sunset_ or _Cranberry-Nectarine Palace_?”

Harry didn’t know, so Draco dumped half of each in the teapot.

“Your house is very pretty,” Harry said. It was true. Draco’s house was simple and the furniture was cheap and old, but Draco had managed to make something beautiful all the same. Mostly it was the pictures hanging everywhere, but there was also a row of glass jars filled with potions of different colours, a candle in a glass and what looked like a tailflower growing out of a bottle.

The jars seemed to have contained coffee or tomato sauce or jam before being repurposed to hold the brightly-coloured potions. Draco might have created a pretty space, but he wasn’t spending much money on it.

Harry accepted the cup of tea (bitter and fruity, not bad) and pointed at the row of potions and said he liked those. Draco then explained that the one with a rich dark red tone used to be green and it had turned that way from the sunlight. The blue one he had to change often because it turned brown with time, so he had ended up using food colouring.

They drank the tea standing in the kitchen, talking about nothing. There was a door that went to the little backyard. Half the door had a window in it and it filled the kitchen with white light. Draco must look extremely beautiful standing there in the early morning.

Harry saw a couple of dog toys in the grass outside. There was also a broomstick near the door, so they talked about that, about broomsticks and flying and Quidditch. Harry liked the Chudley Cannons because they were Ron’s team and he was a loyal friend, the Holyhead Harpies because Ginny played there, and now also the Puddlemere United because of Oliver Wood.

Draco gave him a lovely judging look and an amused smile. 

“What’s your team?” asked Harry.

“Are you going to support that one too?”

Harry made a garbled noise of affirmation and Draco’s smile widened. “The Montrose Magpies and Puddlemere United,” he said. “I like the colours.”

Harry grinned.

“Oh, I brought you something,” Harry said, riding on the energy of that smile. He returned to the door where he had left the package and deposited it on the big table in the living room. Draco had thrown a sheet over one half of the table and Harry was curious, just as he was curious about the two pictures Draco had blurred thinking Harry hadn’t noticed, but there were plenty of other things to see. A second glance at the room had revealed a photo of Draco and Narcissa. Draco’s hair was a bit above shoulder length and tousled. Narcissa’s smile had something wild in it, as if she had decided to project an image of happiness. She looked much better in the photo next to that one. Harry hadn’t recognised her at first. She was wearing a white dress with flowers and her hair was cut in a bob so the picture looked like it was from a century ago. Narcissa had some flowers in her hand and was walking in a promenade shaded with trees. She looked calm and lost in the moment, away from everything in her past.

Harry wondered where she was. What Draco’s parents said of the current life of their son, if they knew at all about it.

“Clothes? Are you giving me clothes?” Draco said as he untangled the ribbon.

“Just the one,” Harry replied. “And I wouldn’t call it ‘clothes,’ it’s outerwear.”

“Don’t get all Ravenclaw on me,” Draco said, and then, when he finally lifted the lid of the box. “Harry… This is— ”

“A coat,” Harry interrupted. Draco had used the tone Ron used when Harry bought his books for Hogwarts or the Auror Academy, Ginny’s tone when Harry got her her first professional broomstick. The tone of, “This is too much and I couldn’t possibly accept it.”

“For wearing outside. I am told that it’s easy to clean so if you insist on walking Fenton through a swamp or wherever it is you are going, you can get the mud off easily.”

Draco blinked, surprised at the onslaught of words. He touched the coat only with his fingertips, as if laying his palm down would mean taking possession.

“If you don’t like the colour, there is a receipt.”

“Harry…”

“Well, I better get going.”

“No, Harry, listen.”

“You can’t reject it if I’m not here to listen,” Harry said over his shoulder, already at the door. “See you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

ooOoo

“How did it go?” asked Regulus. He was sitting on the floor of the dining room surrounded by cut-out pictures of houses and cottages.

“Well, I think.” Harry couldn’t help the smile taking over his face. “I left quickly so he couldn’t say no to the coat, that might have been rude. But there was an incident and he invited me in for tea.”

“He invited you inside?” Regulus exclaimed happily. “Oh, that’s very good. If you get him to share a meal with you then you will be forgiven.”

“We had lunch together yesterday.”

“You had lunch!” Regulus waved his arms in a very funny way. Regulus had the appearance of a melancholic person, but Harry suspected that he was not. Regulus was just very sensitive to the environment and unfortunately he had spent his childhood and youth surrounded by terrible people. Now that he spent his time with Luna, with Fred and with George, he didn’t look melancholic at all.

“I would have told you,” Harry said, because he really would have. Yesterday, he had arrived home wanting to sing and dance. The tenacious journalist from the _Prophet_ had been there and Harry had taken her hands and led her in circle before releasing her and going inside without another word. “But when did you return exactly?”

“Three hours ago,” Regulus admitted. He had either spent the night at Luna’s cottage or with Fred and George. “Did you know? I had a nightmare with a giant lobster.”

A giant lobster sounded terrifying and Harry didn’t know why Regulus said it so happily. Except…

“And nothing else?” he asked.

“No! No water or lake or inferi dragging me down, and no chase through Hogwarts, either.” The absolute relief in Regulus’ face was something to see. The simple joy. Harry hoped he spent the rest of a very long life being unbearably happy. “Fred says he would like to explore the giant lobster further, see if he can turn it into a joke.”

Harry stopped for a second and imagined Minerva McGonagall walking into a room to find a giant lobster there.

“That turns into crab cakes when attacked,” he suggested.

ooOoo

Harry was thinking of Draco that night when he went to bed. This was nothing unusual because he was thinking of Draco almost constantly. He thought of him even when he was thinking of something else. When he saw something nice he thought that he would like Draco to see it or wondered how Draco would react and what Draco would think. When he saw something bad or ugly he thought of Draco criticising it and saying how it should be better. When he saw something boring he thought of Draco saying something witty and then, because it was boring, Harry’s thoughts drifted and he thought of Draco, all of Draco, and half the time he thought about kissing him.

The other half of the time he thought about doing more than that.

But tonight Harry’s thoughts were more complex. Harry had always understood that the Draco he thought about was different from the real one. Even when the real Draco finally kissed him, much like the Draco in Harry’s mind did, it was different.

Different, yes, but close. Harry knew what Draco liked and disliked. With the exception of his one big fiasco, Harry thought that he knew Draco very well. And yet, Draco hadn’t reacted like Harry expected. Draco had woken up to his house vandalized, he had woken up to terrible words written on his walls and he hadn’t been scared, which was a reasonable reaction, or angry, which was even more reasonable. He just… hadn’t been anything at all. It had been the most blasé reaction and it was tearing Harry apart, burning him from the inside, a ball of acid dissolving in his guts like one of Quinn’s curses.

It wasn’t just that Draco had been calm and collected about it. Being self-possessed and keeping a cool head was a great virtue (that Harry sadly lacked), but this was not it.

Draco hadn’t been completely indifferent, he couldn’t be, not when the word “whore” was written on his door; and he hadn’t been wholly unconcerned because Harry had caught that little jolt when he had apparated. But he had been casual about it. Like removing something gross from the sole of a shoe or cleaning the bathroom. Something unpleasant one had to do.

Something like a routine.

It shouldn’t be. Harry hated that it had happened and he wanted, above all, to never see Draco be sad or angry or hurt ever again. But he realised now that he did want Draco like that, he wanted him sad and hurt and angry rather than used to it, inured to it. Harry could take the worst insults towards himself without blinking but he knew what it took to be this hardened. He didn’t want it, not for Draco.

The resigned way he had said he couldn’t even report it… No. It sat over Harry’s lungs like a heavy stone. He turned on his side, the weight of the blanket over his chest was too much. 

There was something else. They had attacked Draco for his profession, for the way he had found of surviving. They attacked him for daring to stand in the only corner they had left him.

But they had also called him blood traitor.

Harry understood that most wizards nowadays didn’t want anything to do with Slytherins or Death Eaters and people related to them. He couldn’t even blame them in most cases, just their behaviour. But blood traitor was a charged word and it belonged to the other side, to the people who had been pushed and excluded just like Draco.

It might have been the article in _The Quibbler_. They had called Draco a hero and Harry now saw that neither side of the war liked the idea of that. Draco must be so alone. He didn’t look alone and he had created a beautiful island in his little bungalow, with the colour and pretty things and Fenton the dog; but it was lonely.

Harry’s courtship must have been even more meaningful when Draco couldn’t expect acceptance from anyone. Harry’s gaffe… yes, he understood now. He had been apologising without understanding, but he did now. How lonely Draco was, how he was branded with words. Death Eater, Malfoy, Slytherin, Whore. How no one saw more than those words.

Harry pushed the sheets aside and got out of his bed. Much like Hermione would say, the answer was in the library.

ooOoo

There was frost on the windows when Harry got up, and on top of the cars parked outside in the street. It was going to be a cold day.

Regulus had a small but significant panic when his nose began to bleed. After sitting on the toilet lid for five minutes with cotton stuffed up his nose, they ascertained that he wasn’t dying after all, so Regulus bounced down the stairs and insisted on making breakfast.

To tell the truth, Harry didn’t use magic to cook either. It simply didn’t occur to him. But Regulus did it with a special kind of focus that made a spectacle of the whole process. Harry glanced at the_ Prophet_ while Regulus checked that the toast was the right kind of golden brown. There were new developments in the case of Aetius Quinn, new crimes discovered, and some people were pushing for an investigation into all the cases of the Department of Mysteries. It was unlikely that the Wizengamot would approve it, but the Minister could give an executive order. A guest writer wrote about the legal consequences of such an investigation and none other than Hermione J. Granger had a column about the ethics of magical research.

Harry hoped his letter had reached her before the request from the_ Prophet_ because she would not be impressed otherwise and when Hermione wasn’t impressed people tended to catch on fire.

Harry only saw this at a glance while he turned the pages to reach the cartoon. _Ruff!_ and the headlines were the only reason he got the paper. _Ruff!_ was like a visual sweet, a treat you ate with your eyes. The headlines were so Harry would know if he was going to be assaulted by a journalist or a fan that day.

“Oh!” Harry cried happily. Despite being mentioned in a prophecy, Harry didn’t really believe in portents and auspices, but the paper had brought what was undoubtedly a Good Omen.

_Ruff!_ was featuring him. Well, not him; Barry Powder, the annoying saviour of the wizarding world with mad hair and an X on his forehead. Barry was being his annoying self, refusing to hand a werewolf over to a party of wizards headed by a member of the Wizengamot for “interrogation.” Barry was saying that the werewolf was either his dog or his cousin, depending on what time of the month they were asking. Then the dog, he wasn’t actually called Ruff, Harry couldn’t remember what his name was, the dog pissed on the shoes of the head wizard, was the point, so the wizard ordered the arrest of the dog. Barry cheekily said the dog was his too; and so was the protesting owner of the dog, and the random bird flying overhead and crapping on the wizard’s hat, all Barry’s.

Harry’s heart had expanded and it was full of warmth. It was amazing that something so simple could produce so much joy. It reasserted the decision he had taken last night.

“I can see this happening,” Regulus said when he had looked at the strip. “The things they must be saying about you in the newsroom.”

Terrible things, Harry had no doubt. Next time a journalist came to him, he was going to do like Fred and congratulate them on the strips.

Harry left the house with that warm feeling still in his chest and apparated to Draco’s bungalow flushed and hopeful. No trace remained of the paint from yesterday and the sky was covered with dark grey clouds. It might snow later.

He knocked. Draco took twenty seconds to open it. He had the black sweater on, probably due to the cold day, and he looked like a dragon’s treasure. He was so beautiful.

“Is that…?” croaked Draco, smart Draco, quick Draco, already guessing what Harry had brought and being halfway to an infuriated laugh.

“I know, but listen,” Harry said. It was really cold and he had forgotten to put on gloves even though they were in his pockets. “Try to forget about the arms and the arch and whatever it was you didn’t like. You have to _see_, Draco. It’s a painting of a feeling. It’s all the exhaustion we felt after the war, the weariness we didn’t have while it was going but that hit us afterwards. I was so tired during the trials, Draco, you can’t imagine. I just wanted to be done. Only you _can_ imagine, can’t you? And that feeling of being completely alone because no one else can understand what we went through. Wanting to be just done. It’s all there! I know it is not perfect, but it captures this feeling of, of, of peace and serenity. He is sitting there in the middle of all this ruin and I don’t know what he is looking at, but that’s the point, he is not looking at the ruined empire. He is alone in a broken place and he is _at peace_, and whenever I look at it I feel at peace too, and I want you to have that.”

Harry was short of breath. The cold was close to painful. The paper he had wrapped the painting in crinkled.

Draco was trembling. His eyes, his mouth, his chest, like the branch of the tree that shakes off the ice of the night. He looked at Harry with desperation, as if Harry had brought bad news rather than delivering the most meaningful gift he could think of.

He took a step forward and then another. The black sweater was warm but not enough for the chill outside. He rested his right hand on Harry’s cheek slowly and carefully, as if he were touching Harry for the first time.

And then, he kissed him. A big hard kiss, putting everything, all the strength of his back, all the force of his heart, in his lips, pressing, pressing, pressing against Harry.

Harry wanted to take him, to hold Draco in his arms and never let go, but he was still holding a valuable painting under his arm so all he could do was sneak an arm around Draco’s back and hold him close. He kissed back with the same ardour and a warm feeling bursting out of his chest.

Harry had the distinct sensation that he had exasperated Draco to the point of incoherency and he didn’t care. Draco was kissing him and Harry kissed him back. He felt something like the rush of lifting off on a broomstick even though both of his feet were firmly planted on the ground.

“You are an idiot,” Draco said after he broke the kiss. He was shaken and amused and, was it relieved? Yes, relieved. Perhaps because Harry could be an oblivious idiot but not unkind or cruel. Perhaps because Draco’s anger hadn’t been enough to dull the pain of separation.

“I know,” answered Harry. He was still holding the painting carefully because he really liked it, it was his favourite thing. He owned very few other things that he liked as much as this. The first sweater that Mrs Weasley had knit him perhaps. He smiled. He didn’t think he could stop smiling. “But I have amazing good luck. Here,” he added, handing Draco the painting.

They went inside and Draco put the painting on the closest chair. He wasn’t careless, exactly, but he wasn’t particularly reverent either. Fenton had come to see what was going on and then quickly returned to the kitchen where something interesting and good smelling was cooking. Draco closed the door to the kitchen after him and crossed the room in three strides. He kissed Harry again. It was a great kiss, strong and sweet and like the feeling of coming home out of the snow.

That was a new sentiment for Harry. Privet Drive had never been a home, no matter what Dumbledore and his love blood magic said. He loved the Burrow dearly, but even if he felt comfortable and welcome there it was still the Weasleys’ place, not his. Grimmauld Place was just the place where he lived and although he had made many changes—the most recent one bringing light to the foyer via removal of ceiling—it just wasn’t a home in the way Draco’s small bungalow was.

And yet, as Draco buried a hand in Harry’s hair and changed the angle of the kiss, Harry felt he was coming home. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders and an easiness take over his chest. It was soft and gentle and free of worries. It was just… right.

Harry had now both of his hands free. He put them on Draco’s waist.

He would had been happy just with kissing Draco and knowing he was forgiven and he hadn’t completely ruined what they had started. Honestly, if in that moment Draco had thanked him for the painting and asked him to go, Harry would have left and he would have kicked his heels and jumped like a fool as soon as he was outside.

But Draco didn’t ask him to leave. Draco kissed him and grabbed his shoulders tight so Harry held him closer and let a hand wander under the black sweater. Draco pressed closer still and Harry could feel him growing hard. He left one hand on Draco’s back, under the clothes, and moved the other down to grab Draco’s arse.

Draco gasped and rubbed against Harry’s thigh. His mouth still had that sharp quality to it, that smartness at the corners. His eyes were half-lidded and languid and Harry had never seen them like this, so tranquil.

So trusting.

Not to say that Draco was passively letting Harry ravish him. Draco put his head on Harry’s shoulder and kissed his neck, biting playfully. His hand descended from Harry’s shoulder and went to find his cock, gripping it. Harry’s knees buckled and it was only his Auror reflexes and physique that saved them from falling to the floor. Draco was amused by Harry’s reaction. He let out a soft laugh against Harry’s neck and he did it again, fondling Harry over his clothes and pressing himself on Harry’s leg.

They went to the floor.

Harry mumbled something about how surely Draco had a bed and how it would be comfier. Draco merely waved a dismissive hand and opened Harry’s jacket, pushing it away, so Harry grabbed a cushion (the house was full of them and he wished he had noticed it sooner because he could also have won Draco over with cushions) and put it under Draco’s head. He kissed him again, slowly, messily, and kept kissing as he lifted Draco’s sweater and removed it. Draco looked up at him, silver hair mussed, and Harry had to stop for a second and hold his face in his hands, staring in wonder. Draco, however, wasn’t very interested in being stared at. He opened Harry’s shirt with some difficulty (why did he insist on wearing elaborate wizarding clothes, Harry didn’t know) and pushed it away impatiently.

Draco was wearing just a plain white shirt under the sweater so Harry didn’t have to fumble with buttons and laces. It was extremely easy to pull the shirt up so he could kiss Draco’s stomach and go lower, lower. A hand came to rest on Harry’s head like a blessing and then it was just as easy to pull Draco’s trousers down and mouth over the cotton underwear, breathing in the smell of Draco.

Harry kissed Draco’s wrist, the tattoo of the teapot that was so silly and lovely. Then he kissed the faint mark of the morsmordre, the worst time in Draco’s life that he wore on his skin, etched in black. He licked the scrolls of steam and sucked the rose of an ice cream near his elbow. Draco didn’t care about Harry’s exploration, shifting under Harry and even grabbing him by the hair and dragging him up to kiss his mouth, which was far more pleasing and appealing to Draco. 

But Harry couldn’t help it, it was like seeing Draco’s soul bloom on his skin in vivid colours. Harry dragged his hand down Draco’s chest and belly until he reached his cock. Draco huffed and laughed when Harry closed his hand around him, stroking, and didn’t complain anymore as Harry kissed the patch of stars on his shoulder, the snitch, the dog sleeping. There was a pencil hiding on the back of his arm, and a white orchid on his inner bicep, the tower that never was Merlin’s on the other side, and it was all Draco, all things he had chosen because they were important.

Draco had a mole on his ribs and Harry kissed it, too. Then Harry switched and moved his hand up, teasing Draco’s nipples, and his mouth went down. He sucked and licked and touched until Draco spilled on his lips and stared at Harry dazed and incredulous.

“Come here,” Draco said, in a murmur. Harry went, resting on top of him. They kissed again and it was especially wet and dirty, Draco’s come still on Harry’s tongue. His cock was hard and leaking, bumping against Draco’s hip and stomach and Harry honestly thought that he could come just like that, just from kissing and touching and seeing Draco lying there, pleased and pretty and not angry with him. Draco moved a hand down and closed it around Harry and he was gone in seconds, just seconds, something inside Harry tipping over and he was overcome with love and pleasure and yes, coming home.

ooOoo

Eventually they moved to the bedroom that Draco did have.

There was a very, _very_, quick and effective negotiation over what they were doing and who was going on top and all that. Meaning that Harry began to ask while Draco got some lube from the bedside drawer and then pushed Harry down and climbed on top of him and said, “if you even think of making a joke about Gryffindor’s sword, I will throw you out the window.”

Harry looked to said window and wisely refrained from pointing that the whole house was on the ground floor so it wasn’t much of a threat. Besides, if he was going to be cheesy he would talk about Slytherin’s snake. But he didn’t say a word for once in his life, occupying his mouth with Draco’s nipple instead. Draco sat on top of him and rode him for twenty minutes and the four Hogwarts Founders couldn’t be farther from Harry’s mind.

So were the other men, the ones who had also seen Draco naked; had touched him, had tasted him. They barely went through Harry’s mind because they didn’t get any of this. They didn’t get Draco’s smiles, not the ones Harry got out of him, full of wit and life. They didn’t get this trust, this openness, this mad joy and happiness as Harry and Draco met each other and were bound and moved together.

This was Draco taking Harry, choosing him, accepting him because he wanted to, not because he had to, and no one else had that. So Harry held tight and kissed and stroked and fondled and watched Draco move above him, the rhythmic undulation of his chest as he climbed up and down, the flutter of his hair, the shine of his eyes and his smile, and between one wave and the next Harry arched and came inside Draco and it was a sweet ecstasy, sweet and hot with a pang of spice, and with just a couple of strokes Draco was coming on Harry’s hand, over his belly, and Harry was absolutely in love. How embarrassing, Merlin, how embarrassing. He was stupidly in love.

ooOoo

The idea had been born on the steps of the Wizengamot as the Malfoys walked away, cleared of all charges, with only a substantial fine to pay for possession of and association with dark arts. That didn’t sit well with a society that wanted harsh punishment for the criminals and equally harsh punishment for those adjacent. Harsh punishments to make up for all the times they didn’t speak, they didn’t act, they let them get away with their crimes.

After a war there are criminals, there are victims and there are those who are neither and will do anything to avoid being put in the first category.

The Malfoys had walked out with heads held high. As bad as they were, in the end, they had done more than any of the wizards looking at them with hate. Narcissa had done more than anyone; certainly more than all those who turned their eyes away when Death Eaters came to take their neighbour, all those whose hearts faltered in the moment of combat. In the end she had looked at Voldemort’s red eyes and she had lied; she had told the most wondrous, monstrous, lie.

But that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t right for them to walk away. It wasn’t right and therefore there must be a hidden wrong.

So there on the steps of the tribunal hall of the Wizengamot, the idea had been born and shared. They must have done something to earn the lenience of the Tribunal, a four-to-one decision. They must have schemed and manipulated.

Draco still wore his hair short back then, slicked back with gel. He walked between his parents, each resting a hand on his shoulder, and it had seemed perfectly evident. The Malfoys must have sold their son’s virtue to earn their freedom.

Nobody cared that it didn’t speak well of the Wizengamot. It was a thought and they liked it: How far the Malfoys would go to get away free, whoring out their son!

Draco hadn’t cared about what they said. Better him than his mother.

The idea should have died there, on the very stairs where it was born. It was an explanation for the Malfoy’s exculpation and it was reprehensible. It worked beautifully to placate the offended sensitivities.

But it was more than that. This is the danger of ideas, of words. This is why Aetius Quinn had been so cautious. Some thoughts had a way of taking root and growing.

The Malfoys had left England. There were rumours of a quiet divorce. Draco had stayed, though. He had been dispossessed of his manor and fortune, he had a mark on his arm and on his name. He was unemployed and unemployable.

It was so obvious, then, that he would have been reduced to selling himself.

People liked the idea. They liked the humiliation, the fall from status if not from grace. They liked that he had avoided punishment but was being used and abused all the same. And, above all, they liked that he had to take it, beg for it, accept what little they decided to throw his way.

Nobody admitted to seeking him out, but they did, and when they found him they laughed, and asked and proposed and sometimes tried to take him simply because they assumed he couldn’t afford to say no. There was a strange ambivalence to it. They didn’t want to fuck him (or so they said) but they also wanted him to be fucked, to see him fallen and reduced, to see him accept what little they offered him and say thank you afterwards.

The idea grew so much that it began to cast shadows over others. People forgot that Harry Potter had testified in the Malfoys’ case. They forgot the sheer inability of the prosecutor to prove any involvement in crimes, despite the brand on Draco’s and Lucius’ arms. They forgot that Narcissa’s actions had been to save her son and she would never allow him to suffer in a miserable state.

For the most part Draco didn’t mind it. Prostitute was neither better nor worse than Death Eater. He wanted to think that if he had to resort to selling himself he would be making more money than at his current job, but he didn’t spend enough time in wizarding society for it to matter in any case. He had gone muggle early and he had stayed there. Muggles didn’t know him and didn’t up the rent just because it was him. His job was the only thing that tied him to the wizarding world. That was enough.

And then Harry had come to shake Draco’s world and make him care, for the first time, about what others said and thought of him. He made Draco care about what Harry thought of him.

There was more. As Harry shook Draco’s world, cracking the stone walls around him, some forgotten things had erupted. Draco suddenly regained something he didn’t know he had lost. He had a family that went beyond the Malfoy name. He had no idea how much he missed Luna in his life until she was there, being kind and fair.

It had been days and days of fear and blood, but unlike the days of the war when Draco shut into himself, Draco had found himself opening. It was very strange. He had grown used to the loneliness and the distance, and now he was close to Harry and Luna and Fred _Weasley_, freaking Fred Weasley_._ He was close to Regulus, too. Too close, perhaps. Regulus was a Death Eater like him, had a brand on his arm like him, and Harry was falling over to save his life.

He had assumed that Harry knew, of course, because it seemed to be in every wizard’s mouth. He didn’t know what to think when Saint Potter of all people snatched him from the street, but he still thought Harry knew. Then Draco had wondered if perhaps Harry didn’t know after all, the way he acted. Later he had decided that Harry knew and didn’t care.

That was Harry, he didn’t care about many things. He didn’t care about people’s opinion or about the mocking cartoons in the _Prophet_. He cared only about the people around him, with a sharp, scary focus. Harry cared about getting Regulus and Fred well and seemed to ignore everything else. It was beautiful in a horrifying way. If it weren’t for Luna and Draco, Harry would have wasted away.

And Draco had fallen. It seemed that Harry was the only person who bothered to look at Draco for himself, who liked him, sins and all, and Draco had fallen fast and hard.

It had hurt so much. It had hurt and he didn’t even know why; he only knew it was like being stabbed with a dagger of ice. Harry _hadn’t_ known, after all, and he had been told and he had _changed_. Sure, he was playing saviour, offering Draco his help, but he had also retreated, he had looked at Draco with different eyes.

It burned.

It didn’t matter that it was all a lie. What mattered was that Harry believed it. What mattered was that Harry hadn’t known that lie when Draco first kissed him, and once he had heard, he had stepped back.

It burned, it hurt, but it wasn’t the first time Draco had been hurt. He knew he would get over it eventually. He might be embarrassed, lonely, perhaps, but as strong as always and with his skills intact. It hurt now, but not forever.

Only Harry had to come and shake Draco’s world again. He couldn’t just follow the script and walk away once he was aware of Draco’s tainted reputation. No, he had to come and apologise. Terribly the first time, earnestly and sweetly the second. And he hadn’t stopped at the apology. He had worked at making amends while respecting Draco’s anger.

Harry was so weird.

He thought that Draco was a whore and he was courting Draco all the same. _Courting_, as if Draco were someone pure and virtuous.

It was ridiculous and it seemed that Draco was the only one who saw it. Regulus had sent him a note—well, he had come via Knight Bus to deliver it himself—and said that he had been thinking about it and Draco should ask Harry for a pomegranate tree before it was too late and Harry got him a pear tree. When asked, Regulus said that pomegranates were the superior fruit. Two hours later Draco had got an owl from Fred saying that Draco should considered pineapples, followed closely by Sevila (he had _asked_ Luna not to send her) with a note from George Weasley telling him to disregard everything and demand that Harry give him a fruit basket and his very own orchestra.

Honestly, Draco didn’t know.

And then Harry had come along with the stupid painting. Draco knew it was that stupid painting as soon as he opened the door and saw Harry holding the flat package. Harry lit up, as he always did when Draco opened the door, the green in his eyes sizzling with a fire in them. His hair was tousled and dishevelled but it looked good, like he had both just fallen out of bed and bravely fought a dragon. He was dressed in dark grey with a garnet cravat, handsome and elegant and strong.

“Is that…?” Draco had said, knowing that his voice was failing him. He didn’t know whether to be touched, infuriated or what. He wanted to laugh and cry. The bloody painting Draco had criticised and Harry had so arduously defended.

“I know, but listen…” Harry had said, and Draco had no other choice but to kiss him and accept that Harry really liked him and he wasn’t leaving Draco’s life any time soon.

Now Draco got out of bed and went to the kitchen to check on the stew he had begun to prepare earlier (it was just about time to take it off the stove) and the potion brewing next to it. Fenton got up when Draco entered the kitchen, tail wagging. He petted him and gave him a small treat. Fenton didn’t want to leave the kitchen so Draco left him there and closed the door after him so the stew smell wouldn’t get everywhere. Outside, it was beginning to rain.

There was a feeling like a cloud. It was white and big and intangible and getting everywhere inside of Draco. A feeling of floating, of softness, of being happy.

Of being loved.

ooOoo

Harry saw as Draco got up from the bed and wandered around the house naked. He heard him go to the kitchen and speak softly with Fenton and then he saw him return to the living room and grab the painting.

There was something devastatingly beautiful about watching Draco standing there naked in a room full of things. Almost as if he belonged in a painting himself. Harry let himself admire the view, the delicious line of Draco’s chest and hip, the curve of his arse, his leg, the way the light played with his hair, the white canvas of his skin and the colours of the tattoos. He was like the little sketches and paintings that hung around the room.

Harry hadn’t paid much attention to the house on this second visit, occupied as he was with taking everything Draco would give him, kissing him with all his might, but he looked around now. Draco’s house was small and Harry could see most of the living room from the bed. (This being Draco’s bed, Harry wasn’t getting up until unless Draco told him to.) He remembered exactly the position of the two pictures Draco had covered when he invited Harry for tea. The smallest one, near the kitchen door, looked from a distance like a cut-out _Ruff!_ strip. Of course Harry didn’t think it very likely that the cartoon had never satirised Draco but it did made Draco a bit of a hypocrite given how he had judged Harry for having one or two strips framed in the house.

The other picture was more interesting. It hung near the corner where Draco had thrown a sheet over something. The sheet was still there, in fact, so Harry looked at the picture. It was a pencil drawing of a man with full lips and a strong jaw. He kind of looked like a naval captain, looking out to the sea, the wind ruffling his hair and a confident smile on his handsome face. Of course he could also be a Quidditch player, but there was something heroic in his posture that made Harry think sea captain or dragon rider at the very least.

It took him two minutes to realise he was looking at a portrait of himself. Harry still thought of himself as the tiny orphan in old clothes or the angry, anxious teenager, wearing ill-fitting clothes. The handsome gentleman he saw in the mirror these days never stopped being a stranger.

Draco had gotten a portrait of Harry. Draco had kept it even through his anger. Draco looked at the things he liked, he wore them on his skin. 

There were other pictures. Pencil sketches and a few watercolours and a couple of ink drawings in a familiar elegant style. There were also a few paintings on canvas. A fountain in a garden, a tower at night, a Quidditch field seen from above with a tiny snitch darting in and out of view. Actually, that one was very good. It had the essence of height and silence only the players experienced.

And in the middle of it all, Draco, holding the painting of the solemn ruins.

Draco was right, thought Harry, he was an idiot.

He looked again at the sheet covering something in the corner. There was a plastic box next to it with about a dozen small bottles of different colours.

“Draco.”

“Yes?’” Draco looked briefly over his shoulder and smiled at Harry before turning his attention back to the painting and the room, ostensibly trying to choose a place for it that wasn’t the chair.

Harry took a breath. He felt like the biggest, most obtuse idiot in the country and he couldn’t stop smiling. “Did I give you your own painting?”

Draco bowed his head, hair flowing. His shoulders shook with laughter.

“Oh my god. I did, didn’t I?”

Draco needed a minute to answer, overcome by that kind of laughter so strong that it doesn’t allow you to utter a sound.

“How much did you pay for this?” Draco said at last, smiling. He had a great smile, he could probably bring people back to life with it. 

“Three hundred galleons.”

“Merlin’s balls! That’s three months of rent.” Draco looked aghast that anyone would pay such a sum for a work of art.

Harry had no idea if that was very much; he thought he had seen more expensive things in the gallery. He just knew that it was worth every gold coin for all the good things it did to his heart and his mind when he stared at it.

“I—I didn’t know you were an artist,” Harry admitted, his head hitting the bed. It was so fucking obvious now. Draco had drawings on his skin and paint on his face and a special way of looking at the world. “But I guess it suits you.”

Draco tossed his hair over his left shoulder. The painting was put back in the chair for now.

“Don’t be dense,” he said as he walked back to bed and to Harry. “Nobody can make a living as an artist.”

He threw a leg over Harry and sat astride him, bending down to kiss him. Harry felt a current of interest in his belly, his hands already on Draco’s waist. He kissed back. Draco’s hair was tickling Harry’s face and the world was made of marvellous things.

“I have a job,” Draco said and he sucked on Harry’s earlobe. “I draw the cartoons for the_ Prophet._”


End file.
